Invisible Roses
by barefoot11
Summary: Matthew has five people who make his skin tingle; but when he gets curious about them, the story that unfurls about their lives changes their world forever. And he's not sure if it's for the best. futuristic!AU
1. prologue

**A/N**: This is a futuristic AU. The chapters aren't that long, and I have the first ten chapters [including this prologue, which mainly serves to set the setting and plot] finished already.

Prussia/Canada is the main pairing, though a few others may be fleetingly mentioned.

I'll [most likely] change the character listings every chapter since almost every chapter is character-specific.

And an important note: If anyone, by the end of this story (or even before) can tell me where the title comes from...!

…To tell the truth, you are in for a short but complicated ride. Enjoy.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**: (four's patience)

His heart rate increased dangerously as a shadow cast itself over him.

"Hey, mind if I sit here?"

Quite possibly, that was the thing that would bother Matthew the most. With his mind on a sort of overdrive, he jerkily nodded. "D-Don't mind at a-all." Even though he knew by heart the sight that would greet him when he looked up, he humored himself and glanced.

With wide shoulders and an even broader grin, the one with the codename of America – oh, Matthew knew his real name, he did, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember – sat before him. The locks of hair fell like sand from his scalp, appealing and free. He began unwrapping his lunch, not looking up as he did so. "You're Canadia, right?"

"Canada," Matthew corrected.

"Right. That's what I said." America slurped at his drink before taking bites of his sandwich. "Anyway, uh, hi."

"Hi." Matthew knew that his short answers were not helping the progress of their conversation, but his body was too tense to do so. He had lost his appetite the moment the fellow officer had sat down, so he busily pushed the remnants of his lunch around on his plate.

"You gunna eat that?" America asked, motioning to an apple that had tipped over on its side.

He knew it was a mistake the moment he did it, but Matthew looked up, and accidently met America's eyes. Instantly, his thoughts overcame him. Those eyes were all it took.

Between them, it was now obvious that they both shared the same obnoxious flaw – at birth, neither of them had been blessed with perfect eyesight. So injected into their eyes had been special medical syrup to fix the problem – both of them had twenty-twenty vision now – but there had been an aftereffect. The irises of their eyes had abnormal coloring.

When Matthew looked up to America – it hit him now, the name was Alfred – he saw one of the lightest tints of blue he had even seen, so light that they almost appeared translucent.

And he was fully aware of the fact that when Alfred stared at him, he saw deep pools of purple.

He could remember at least two other people who had undergone the same procedure when they were born, but he couldn't place names or faces.

Matthew broke. "N-No; you can have it." He picked the apple up, and handed it over, but he pulled his hand back quick enough that his skin wouldn't brush against America's.

"Thanks." If America had been startled by the eye contact, he simply didn't show it.

The more time that passed, the more he wanted to leave. Something was… off. But it would seem rude to the other party. He shifted his weight on his seat. Now he realized that he should have taken the express lane – where your food was reduced to easily digestible but tasteless tablets for those on the go. Or even gotten his lunch delivered to his room via digital cloning. He did that usually, so he didn't have to face others in the clichéd cafeteria setting. (His timidity was near crippling.)

But the day he had felt a little braver than usual was when America would end up sitting before him.

His heart wasn't performing right. It was doing that weird jumping thing it did every time he saw America.

Matthew had always felt a pull to the other blonde-haired officer. A familiar pull. As if… they had known each other – possibly when they were younger – but the encounter had been forgotten. He wasn't sure if America felt it as well.

(Matthew wanted to call him Alfred. It was like a subconscious need to say that name that frightened him so badly he didn't even think of acting on it.)

Despite what Matthew had thought, his heart still hadn't calmed down. He looked to see that America was almost done with his lunch – maybe he could leave? But of course not.

"So, hey. I've seen ya 'round lot." America spoke messily, and with food in his mouth.

(His voice was like liquid gold – the more he talked, the more easy Matthew felt…)

"I was wonderin'… what section are ya in?"

The dialect was disgusting. Matthew had no idea why America's English was so improper – possibly a severe speech impediment? – but he didn't call him on it. "B," he told him, cautiously. America didn't need to say it – Matthew knew he was in section A.

"I'm in section A, myself. Lots of intense things we get, up there…" He drifted off, taking a drink from his cup. "Any high-class attack gets sent right to us, yep. Lots o' bloody things happen." He shook his hair from his face. "Intense," he said again.

Matthew wanted to tell him that yes, he knew what happened in the section above him – he knew that those in section A were the most skilled out of all the commanding officers, and the skill decreased from each descending, alphabetical level. He didn't need to be told all it over again.

"How interesting," he said.

"Yep," America agreed, readily. "I 'member when I was a B officer, like you there, Canadia." He pointed toward him with a sloppy finger.

America was staring right at him, like people did in casual conversation. But Matthew couldn't stand those pale blue eyes and stared a bit over his shoulder. He forgot to correct him.

"It was a bunch of low-class attacks, but they took forever. Like, there'd be hundreds of 'em Terrors, but ten would come out at a time. Total waste."

America was done eating. Why were they still talking? Matthew felt as if he might explode.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't get to the A section without the B section training. Took me four years, but I finally learned the lesson I finally had to learn – patience."

At that one word, Matthew's heart actually stalled for a moment. In weakness, he opened himself up and stared into those orbs.

"Patience was what the B section was all about…" America thought about it. "Well, no; not really. But to me, it was what I had to be taught. You'll be really ready when you learn patience…" He shrugged one single shoulder blade, and stiffened his words. "I suppose for each B, it's different. Like, everyone does the same exact training, but everyone rises with a different perspective." A laugh came from him, soft and still so familiar. "Dunno how they do it, but it's amazing. One of my good friends came out of it, and said he learned tolerance. Yet 'nother said – and you won't believe it – _chastity_. Didn't follow through with it, of course, but he realized that it's actually okay not to be active in that sort of way."

Matthew, at the silence that followed the soliloquy, was sure that his rapid heartbeat could be heard.

America's expression softened like dough. "Well, I don't know why I'm telling you this… I've just always felt some sorta connection to ya, Canadia!" A loud, forced laugh ensued. "Crazy, uh?" And with that fleeting statement, America picked up his finished tray and simply walked away.

Matthew's mind was throbbing. His throat had gone dry, and he couldn't even feel his heart anymore. "Matthew," he whispered, the syllables broken in his emotion. "My name's Matthew…"

If only Alfred had heard him.


	2. chapter one

**CHAPTER ONE**: (five's coffee mug)

That hadn't been the first time that one of Matthew's 'observees' – as he liked to fondly call the ones that gave him that unarming pressure in his heart, and as a result, he faithfully observed – had stumbled upon him. He liked to keep those that gave him a funny feeling as far away as possible, but some encounters either couldn't be avoided or couldn't be escaped from. Luckily for Matthew, he only had a handful of them – exactly five – to keep track of.

And as he lounged around in the leisure room – he sprawled over a dark couch, a book comfortable in his hands; no one was around – his number five caught up to him.

(He had numbered them all, comically, in order of the extent of that feeling. Number one was the easiest on his physical being, with only a constant flare of raw emotion in his mind, and number five was the most traumatic. Luckily, none of those special five were in his alphabetical section, so he barely stumbled upon them.)

The door of the leisure room opened loudly, and wasn't closed as the person entered.

In a natural move, Matthew looked over the top of the couch to catch sight of the visitor. Instantly, an incurable sense of heat filled his whole body, making his stomach whirl and his head throb. With an inevitable gasp, he sank back into the cushions, using his book to cover his face as it bloomed red. He simply couldn't believe it – stuck, alone, with his number five simply nine days after having to converse with his number four! Was something out to get him?

Number five moved straight to the coffee-maker, which was on the left side of the room. He needn't go around the couch to get there, so Matthew was unseen. As cups and spoons clattered against bags and equipment, Matthew could tell how frazzled – and probably in need of caffeine – his number five was. That wasn't good.

From what he observed, his number five was very emotional and dramatic – easy to infuriate, hard to soothe, and very egotistical. If five was already in one of his moods when Matthew was to first talk to him, he could only imagine how terrible it would end up. He remained frozen, but silent; he tried to read the words on the pages of his book, but they blurred.

To Matthew's horror, number five actually began to talk to himself.

"What the hell do they know? Damn it."

The language – it was so primitive! No one – but the Elders – used profanity like _that_. Curse words had evolved from that form. How old was his number five? He didn't think too old, but it would be within five's personality to stick with the classics…

"Stupid over-powered idiots that think they can simply… argh!" The talking stopped, but actions flowed. Number five took the mug he had been about to fill, and slammed it against the tile floor. Needless to say, it shattered on impact, making a startling noise and a mess.

Despite himself, Matthew shrieked in surprise (and maybe a bit of fear: his number five was also extremely violent). As he did it, he prayed that the mug's noise would cover it up, but he still heard it loudly in his own ears. He swore his face was burning. He had never felt like that before.

The silence was a boulder on Matthew's chest that pressed down harder every moment it was left untreated.

Finally, his number five swung around, and moved to stand right in front of the couch.

"Well, well – what do we have here?"

The voice… so suave, so poisonous… Matthew's mind was clouded with it. He didn't know when, but his eyes had closed. He stared resolutely at the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to pretend it was all in his head.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure you're not one of the cushions. Do something!"

It was clearly directed to him. But he still couldn't move.

"Can't you hear right? I said, move!"

Suddenly, the voice wasn't so suave. It was threatening, terrorizing… Matthew, with shaky hands, moved the book to present his face. (He was still lying down – he was sure his knees had locked and his elbows had gone limp.) He was all too aware that the eyes that stared fearfully at his number five were all too purple.

But the eyes that stared back were all too red.

Matthew hadn't known…

"Ha ha, smart ass. Get up!"

Matthew's body wasn't connected to his internal thoughts – was he even thinking anymore? – and he rose, almost obediently. He stood on unsteady feet, just a meter away from his number five.

Those red eyes came closer, too close. "What the hell's wrong with you? Cowering on the freaking couch? You can't be serious. What, did your little girlfriend dump you or something? And you came here to hug yourself and cry like a wuss? This ain't the time or place, pal."

Instantly, Matthew knew this was a rant of anger not directed at him. The book he had been reading clearly dissolved the whole hugging-and-crying scenario; but number five wasn't taking that into account and was simply making something up so he could scream. Matthew wasn't at fault.

(This information was good – for some reason, at first, when that voice had started to talk so loathingly to him, Matthew's heart seemed to go cold and sink in his chest. That feeling was even more painful than the fast pulsations.)

Five was mere inches away now, which increased the heat all over Matthew's body. Matthew felt that he could see all the way through those red eyes…

"I'm not in the freaking mood to be messed with, so if you've got a problem, don't bother. I'll wipe these floors with you."

And with that, Matthew concluded, the horrible confrontation was over. Number five moved back to the coffee machine – stepping all over those shattered shards – and filled up a different mug.

Yet, Matthew's heart ached and convulsed at the loss. Matthew touched that area above his heart fleetingly, wishing its cooperation, before sitting back onto the couch. His book had lost his page, and he didn't try to find it. He only picked it up so he could put it on his lap.

Five's presence was very evident to him. He could barely breathe, so long as the other was in the room.

The mug was filled – but number five wasn't talking now that he was aware of Matthew's own company. Only when he left – leaving that mess of anger on the floor – did he utter words under his breath, unintelligible mumbles – with colorful, more recent curse words shining through.

Matthew waited five solid minutes, just in case the other was to return, before even attempting to do anything. First thing that he did when those minutes were up was fill his lungs – the shuddering breaths that had occurred throughout the confrontation were unsatisfactory and more like hyperventilation. Then, he forced down sobs and pondered.

Prussia was the smooth name of his number five. Matthew wasn't sure of his real name and not much else personally except for the fact that he was in section A.

And then he realized that all of his numbers were in section A.


	3. chapter two

**CHAPTER TWO**: (zero's plan)

Matthew remained in his living space for as long as he could manage. He had his food digitally cloned into his room – despite controversy, it tasted just the same – and avoided as many people as he could. He couldn't risk seeing his one, two, or three – four and five had already gotten to him, then why not the others?

Updates, without fail, were daily delivered to his room by The Monitor, and that made it all harder – seeing the news of section A, reminding him of the lot he was avoiding. Seeing how section A was prevailing so flawlessly in the fight against Terrors… that reminded him of America.

And the relapses would start all over again.

He would constantly replay each encounter in his mind, wishing them out of existence. He tried to see exactly at what points made his body so ill. With Prussia, it was easy – the moment the mug had shattered, and the whole speech after that.

With America, it was different.

Initially, when America had sat down, the uncomfortable feeling was at its fullest. Afterward, it faded into nothing. Sure, the bodily actions were all happening, but he simply hadn't felt that uneasiness that Prussia had made him feel.

Why was there such an evident difference? How he had found out about these special five were the same in each instance: the moment he first looked at them, certain symptoms occurred, but each one separately lead to a nasty stomach flu that took him a while to get over, even with the fast-acting medicines.

So why were the long-term effects so differing?

With a shudder, Matthew realized that he might have to test out his reactions to each person, to really get a clue to what was happening. Was he up to that sort of thing?

The insomnia that had previously came over him faded, so he was given no chance at thought.


	4. chapter three

**CHAPTER THREE**: (one's game)

By process of logical reasoning, Matthew steeled himself and set out to approach his number one first. It was only because his number one was easiest to find – one put himself out there, and didn't have the most unnoticeable appearance – and wouldn't affect him that much.

There he was – Matthew had searched the cafeteria – sitting relatively by himself. Matthew jumped at the chance. It could be even more awkward if someone else was with them.

One's back was to him, but Matthew walked around the table to stand in front of him. "Mind if I sit here?" he asked.

One looked up, and then said, "I do not mind."

Matthew sat down, and prepared himself. There was no initial reaction, just he had suspected – number one was going to be the easiest.

A sudden thought occurred to him – eyes. Both America's and Prussia's eyes had been different than normal. What about one?

Since, unfortunately, number one didn't seem talkative, Matthew had to begin. "I heard that you had a… pretty big win against a… large group of… Terrors recently. How… was that like?" It took all he had not to stutter. At times, he had to pause until his tongue obeyed him. He must have seemed challenged.

One shrugged his large shoulders. "It wasn't any different from a normal attack… it just took a lot longer…"

Matthew was reminded of America's words, but struggled not to show it. "Really?"

"Yes. That's why I'm so tired now. I look tired now, da?" One looked up to show his fatigued countenance.

Matthew hadn't been prepared. At the same time he had been presented with a surprising speech malfunction – he was influenced to call it a tic, for some reason – one's eyes had been raised.

It was a double attack. Speech tics were rare, and purple eyes were rarer.

Matthew would know – his purple eyes were staring into number one's.

The shock overpowered him. He tried not to choke on his drink, but he did end up coughing violently.

"Are you okay…?" He stopped. "…I am sorry, but I do not know your name. Mine is Russia, if you want to tell me yours, da."

Matthew's eyes watered. His throat was so sore, and at the moment Russia had expressed his name, a thread of emotion split his head. The first symptom. "My name is C-C-Canada," he said, wearily.

He was beginning to fear approaching two and three – if number one could do this to him, two and three couldn't be as mellow as he had thought before.

"Oh? I have never heard of you, da! But surely we will become great comrades?" Russia's hand thrust out in a traditional handshake of affirmation.

Comrades… that word wasn't used often anymore, either. It made the thread in Matthew's mind expand. He shook Russia's hand – reluctantly; he wasn't sure what would happen.

But Russia simply smiled in adoration. "Pleasure to meet you!"

Again, Matthew lost his appetite. He simply sat there, faking a smile. "The pleasure is all mine," he assured, though he was feeling nothing relative to bliss.

"That last Terror attack was very complicated, too, you see," Russia began to explain.

Matthew would compare number one's voice to that of a child's. So excitable…

"They all clustered up, and tried to hide among one another so that when I shot one, I wouldn't be expecting the next! It was very silly of them. I caught the hang of their game very quickly…" Russia took a drink, obviously planning on talking more. The way he drank, however, was comparably opposite of how America did. Russia wasn't noisy or hurried. "So, since they wanted to play a game with me, I thought, why don't I play a game with them, da? It was only fair. Do you want to know what I did then, Canada?" He was beginning to be more talkative than Matthew had thought.

The name was correct, but the way it was pronounced made Matthew shiver a bit. "Um – sure."

"I shot some, and let the ones near them get as close as possible – and then I shot them! It was funny that they thought they had a chance." His smile was large and simple. "Have you played any games like that with them?"

Matthew was near to identifying the feeling that was overcoming him. It was rising, ever so surely, like bile in his throat… "No, I don't think I have…"

Those purple eyes – that Matthew still couldn't look directly into for so long – were very expressive. They softened with pity. "Oh, you poor boy! Attacks are simply boring if you do not make your own fun with them! To top it off, the screams those Terrors make are delightful."

And then the name of that feeling exploded in Matthew's mind: fear.


	5. chapter four

**CHAPTER FOUR**: (zero's illness and three's scattered papers)

Matthew had barely gotten out of that situation with his dignity. He had to sit through the rest of Russia's mainly one-sided conversation, all the while that unrealistic fear was building in his mind. His skin kept tingling, as if his body felt Russia was going to attack any moment. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

Eventually, Russia had spotted someone else he knew and wanted to sit and speak with them. Matthew had a-little-too-quickly agreed. He tossed his full lunch plate and walked hurriedly out of the room. (Not too fast – he needn't any attention.) He wanted to get back to his room and attempt to recover from the conversation – his head was simply pounding.

But, it felt as if someone had really been out to get him, for, on his way out, he ran into his number three. It had only been a hallway away from his room, sadly enough.

And the encounter was really an encounter. In Matthew's mad dash, he ran directly into number three, sending three's papers flying.

His head was still suffering, but now his heartbeat had increased as he bent down to pick up the papers. "I'm – I'm really sorry. I should have been watching…" As he gathered the sheets against his chest, he was sure he was bending and crumbling each and every one, but he was too frazzled to become orderly.

"No, no. It's perfectly alright! Let me see…"

To his horror, number three reached down and took his hands, making him drop the papers all over again. Matthew stood. Three held one of his hands, and then three's other hand reached out to touch Matthew's face.

Ah, yes – number three was the most touchy-feely person in the whole station, unluckily enough.

"Are you alright? I surely didn't expect someone as fast as you to come running down here… are you sure I didn't hurt you in some way during impact?"

Matthew almost fainted. Three's voice was the most melodious thing he'd ever heard, and it was so genuinely worried. And at his touch, a feeling – similar to the one America gave him, but not quite – started at that contact and spread blissfully throughout his body. "I – I'm fine." The color spreading over his face gave him away.

"Oh, no –" He seemed as if he was going to say a certain word, but swallowed and tried again, "Oh, no, you look simply ill! Should I bring you to the infirmary? Here, let me…"

When three moved around to take his arm, Matthew caught a crazed sense of self-control and flailed from his grip. In the process, he knew he stepped on at least a couple of the papers. But he physically couldn't handle standing so close. "No, no, please! I'm alright. I was… I was just about to lie down, a-actually, so don't worry over it!"

Three clicked his tongue, sympathetic. "So you _are_ sick? Such a shame. Disease is so rare now-a-days… anyway, I do hope you feel better. I'm France, by the way." The smile France gave was charming and charismatic.

"Canada," Matthew said, alarmed at the sudden introduction. He hadn't planned on taking names.

"I must say…" France began, sounding mystified, "your eyes are simply amazing…" The thing was, he sounded as if he truly meant it.

That was when Canada remembered to meet France's eyes. He looked and saw that France's eyes were blue – nothing unusual. The fact was a relief, but a disappointment at the same time.

"Thank you," Matthew mumbled. France's bluntness was a refreshing thing. Most people were too afraid to talk about his eye color.

And yet… there seemed to be something else going on underneath the current conversation… he wasn't sure of it. It was as if by asking about his eyes, France was actually trying to find out something else… but what?

France expressed unease all of a sudden. "Tell me, Canada," he asked, urgently, but quietly, "what color eyes do you think you would have had if they hadn't been… you know?" He stared resolutely at Matthew, as if the rest of his life depended on the answer.

The first thing that popped into Matthew's mind was blue, even though he had never thought about it at all. It wasn't even something he'd considered! To think, his eyes had once been another color…

His heart had started up abnormally again. His mouth spat, "I-I haven't really thought about it before. But I'd have to say… blue."

"Blue?" A heavy weight seemed to be lifted from France's shoulders. He visibly straightened. A light shined in his eyes and he asked, excitedly, "You really think so?"

"I – yes." Matthew's mind had recovered from Russia's encounter, but now it started throbbing in a different way. His replies, if only to him, sounded mechanical; and his tongue was heavy and numb in his mouth.

France was too happy. "I – just…" He couldn't find a way to word whatever it was he wanted to say, so he simply opted to smile. "Well, then, I should get this mess cleaned up before one of the Superiors find me –" Again, he stopped suddenly. His phrasing was clipped. But that time, he left his sentence there. Bending down to gather the papers up, he added, "Please don't feel obliged to help me. You are ill, after all."

"No, it's alright." Matthew wasn't sick, and he wasn't about to let France continue to think so. "I can help you." And Matthew bent down as well. With only two papers in his hands, the other's voice stopped him cold.

"I'm serious. You don't look too well. You shouldn't force yourself into things you're not comfortable with." France's eyes were so blue, yet so sincere and demanding. It was like staring into two contradictions. "Come on, now. I can do this myself, _mon ch_ – I mean, I can do this myself." He flinched. "Go on and rest." France looked down, embarrassed, as his hands hurried around the sea of papers.

Matthew was left wondering. The beginning of those stopped syllables seemed so… familiar to him. But he had no idea what they were supposed to mean. And France's tone… even though he was an officer above him, France hadn't seemed to be using his power over him – more like a friendly warning, or paternal advice. The sensation that Matthew experienced with that thought couldn't be named.

He stuttered, "Th… thank you, France."

"Don't worry about it. I'm simply telling you something that someone should have told you a long time ago." And with those echoing words, France gave him a smile, hoarded his papers, and left.


	6. chapter five

**CHAPTER FIVE**: (the dissolution of five and two's words of wisdom)

Afterwards, Matthew comically thought of the old phrase, _killing two birds with one stone_.

Since, with a singular attempt, he had managed to visit both Russia and France.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a real stone, and he wasn't even sure what birds were… but that's why it was an old phrase: to be used by Elders, who hopefully knew what they were talking about. (Although all of their talk seemed to be pure gibberish to Matthew.)

Now, the only one left was his number two. Number two was constantly working, and never tolerated foolishness, so getting his attention might be trickier. He would have to come up with something… maybe a question that he'd ask, completely concerning the attacks? But what? He was only a B officer, so it would make sense if he was going to an A for advice… but it would seem awkward and incredibly pointed. How could he possibly pull this off?

One thing finally seemed to fall in his favor, then – over the Monitor, a mandatory meeting was being called for every Veteran B officer (more than two years in the B service qualified you as Veteran, and Matthew had been in it for three). The meeting was to be conducted by the A section, unsurprisingly enough, and should be incredibly short.

This was his chance. He could confront two there, with a question about the meeting. He'd have to make up a question, but he trusted himself enough to know that it wouldn't be stupid.

He exited his room, not running into anyone on his way.

When he arrived, he saw that the meeting room's sliding doors were large and dark, so no one could peer inside. He hadn't frequented it for a while, but it still opened automatically. Matthew slid in without anyone noticing him. The room was filled with most of his B section colleges. He wanted to take a seat by himself, preferably close to the front.

He unwillingly ignored some of his more favorable colleges who called to him, not wanting them to ask him to sit with them. He wouldn't have been able to refuse.

Matthew didn't take the seat dead-center – it was too obvious – but sat in the one most to his left, also closest to the exit. He fisted his hands and tapped them distractedly on his knees, looking around for any sign of the meeting coming to a start.

Minutes later, when it finally began, it was a grand affair. From the entrance behind them, the door opened very dramatically. Someone announced, "Please welcome the members of the A section."

In a line, the A group entered, all of them clad in their black uniforms. (Matthew's own uniform was gray – the color's intensity decreased by level. Cs wore a grayish-white, while Ds got the hideous all-white.) Every one of their expressions was stoic, as instructed – but some of them had trouble keeping it up.

America's lips quivered as he fought the urge to grin proudly at the recognition, France looked like he wanted to wave, and yet another whom Matthew couldn't name (NorthItaly, was it?) seemed to have a quirk to his mouth.

They marched from the back of the room in sync to the front, and then took the small steps up and onto the stage. Then they filed across the back of the stage, the epitome of troop discipline with their backs straight and their hands clasped behind them.

There were eight of them.

Matthew did a mental recount. There were supposed to be nine… and then it hit him.

Prussia was missing.

While he was glad that he wouldn't have to experience what Prussia put him through again, he did get a sense that something was wrong.

He shifted, uneasily, in his chair.

After a beat of silence, one of the officers walked forward – a crisp blonde one that Matthew knew as Germany, since he was the spokesperson for the group. Matthew had attended one of Germany's personal lectures before, and he sincerely hoped he wouldn't be the only one speaking… Germany was very monotone and bland. It made for boring meetings.

His number two stood there, perfectly solid, behind him. At least Germany's presence was shielding him from sight for the time being…

Germany began, solemn and looking genuinely dismayed over the subject matter. "Recently, one of our members had to be let go."

A flash tore through Matthew's mind. He looked back at Germany more intensely. No one ever had to be let go – none of the history books he had read had mentioned anything even similar to that! And it had happened to Prussia?

"Because of this, we will be promoting an additional member to the A section this year. We would like to inform everyone of this ahead of time so that you all may begin to work harder. I have heard unflattering things from your Superiors." Germany's tone hadn't changed at all.

Superiors… France had said something fleeting about them. When Matthew looked on stage, France was looking prim and proper like all the rest, but his expression displayed deep melancholy. France just couldn't hide it.

Beside him, America seemed apathetic, if a bit happy over the news – even though Matthew figured he'd known ahead of time. (America did have a tendency to always have an emotion on his face; he never was completely placid.)

And on the other side of America was Russia, whose mind seemed to be high in the clouds, and a small grin was pulled over his mouth.

Matthew was losing his focus, and quickly. Number two. He should be keeping track of number two! Looking, he saw that number two had one of the wickedest grins he'd ever seen. His heart stalled for a moment.

What exactly was going on?

Germany seemed to be making the speech short. He always had a formal way of talking and an appealing way of phrasing, but he picked up the pace in his final installment: "We are choosing one person to be promoted next week. It may seem soon, but the Terrors have recently been a very active threat, and we cannot be understaffed. The second will be promoted, as per usual, at the end of the year, so you do have time if you were planning on taking a shot. That will be all, thank you."

Matthew had a bit of trouble in making his body move, but as everyone stood to leave and the A section stepped from the stage, he managed to stand. Suddenly, he had an impulsive thought.

The moment it hit him Matthew knew it was a terrible idea. Knowing number two's personality, he'd end up getting slapped. But he honestly couldn't stop himself as he weaved through the crowds and pushed his way to be right in front of his number two.

Slightly panicked, Matthew's words came out strung together: "Sir, whywasPrussialetgo?"

The first thing that he noticed were his two's large green eyes. He had never seen them so close before. But they were so green! The second thing was the expression on his face. Instead of the pure outrage Matthew had expected, two was actually speechless for a few seconds before he choked out, "Who the hell are you?"

Primitive language. Like Prussia.

What was he missing here?

"I'm – I'm Canada, sir," Matthew said, becoming a bit more fluent. He had no idea why he was adding 'sir' to each sentence, but the other seemed to enjoy the obvious respect – if only for a moment.

Two tasted the name on his lips by declaring, "Well, Canada – I don't know how you know… but Prussia's leave has nothing to do with you. I hope you'll be wise and leave the issue alone."

Matthew reeled at the suggestion. "But – But sir, I –"

"Stop with this 'sir' business," two demanded, "it's demeaning. I have a name and I'd appreciate if you used it, Canada."

Matthew stared. He didn't know two's name – how could he use it?

Most of the room had cleared by then. With a tiny reference to his peripheral, he saw America and France still loitering around the exit, probably waiting for his number two.

Besides that, emptiness surrounded them.

Those emerald green eyes narrowed to dangerous, threatening slits. "My name's England, boy."

Almost instantly, Matthew's heart beat flew out of control. "O-Oh. Of course. I'm sorry."

England raised an eyebrow, loosening in his violent demeanor. (Both eyebrows were very noticeable.) "I have no idea why you're apologizing to me."

"I – I – I'm just…" But Matthew hadn't a clue either. He turned still and silent when England fondly put a hand on his shoulder.

Tiny beads of electricity rolled down his arms, and he couldn't breathe. His lips parted, but nothing flowed from between them.

"I'm very amused at your curiosity, boy," England said, coming back to the initial topic, "but some things are simply above you. I can see that you probably want to join the A section, and want to learn what not to do? Well, I'll tell you this: if you had known Prussia, you could take him as an example of everything not to be. Sure, he was very passionate about his occupation, but he let everything else get in the way. That, and his personality drove everyone batty." A smirk, nostalgic but pleased, interrupted his rant. "Just stay strong, and you'll get there."

England patted Matthew's shoulder before taking his leave.

Matthew watched as America and England passed through those opaque doors, and France lingered. They locked eyes, Matthew being the worse for wear.

France smiled kindly. "I see your illness is cured? Though you do seem a bit flushed, it could just be from today's news. Big shock, huh? Two more additions!" He laughed, imagining. But he gave Matthew a wink. "I'll send in a good word for you, 'kay?" And then he, too, was gone; his words, once again, were left floating in the air.


	7. chapter six

**CHAPTER SIX**: (five talks nonsense and zero is late)

Matthew just wanted to tell everyone that he was sick and couldn't face them anymore. Unfortunately, all contractible diseases were cured within (but usually less than) seventy-two hours when given the correct medicine… and there were only so many diseases he could fake before he'd have to go out into the world again.

It wasn't even worth trying.

The fact that one of his observees was gone should have been a plus for Matthew – and it was worst person, additionally – but he couldn't feel anything but depression. It was as if when Prussia left, he took Matthew's will with him. Nothing seemed even remotely exciting: he didn't know what was going on.

What in the world had Prussia done?

He left the question open in his mind. Matthew should have been focusing on what Prussia had done to be let go, but all he could concentrate on was what Prussia had done to _him_ when he had left…

The Monitor rang, loudly, beside him, and the tune indicated that it was one of the B section's premade alarms. It told him that the field test was today, minutes away – when they decided who was going to take Prussia's place.

The thought was completely dismal, but Matthew placed his feet on the floor and headed out, wearing his gray uniform (like told) to impress the judges.

But he'd never get there.

The hallways weren't as crowded as usual – he figured that most of the Bs would have gotten there early for punctuality. Matthew couldn't care less. His steps were heavy and fluid, and all of a sudden, goose bumps rose on his skin.

He paused, bewildered, and looked at his arm. Yes, sure enough, there were goose bumps all the way from his wrist to under his sleeve. ('Goose bumps' wasn't even the term used anymore, but he was too fond of the uniqueness of it to stop using it. Goose? What was that supposed to mean?) There was also a sense that every one of his moves was being imitated… someone following him? His eyes flickered before he glanced behind him.

He couldn't have been more surprised to see red eyes.

"I'm warning you, pal. I've heard you're the pick of the lot to replace me. I doubt they know what the hell they're doing! A wimp like you… it's disgusting!"

Prussia's hair stuck up every which way, even around his black hat. His eyes were still that hellish red color, but they were bloodshot and crazed. Wrinkles made themselves comfortable in his clothing – he was wearing his black uniform – and everything about him screamed fury. His cheeks were flushed.

"I'd rather have that filthy Austria taking my place than you!"

Austria. Matthew knew him… he knew that Austria had had that special procedure done to his eyes when he was an infant as well. But how did Austria know Prussia? How did Prussia know Austria?

Abruptly, hands were fisted in Matthew's uniform, and Matthew was pulled forward so quickly that his gray hat fell from his head. Heat replaced his goose bumps, making his skin tingle beneath the surface. His heart was running alongside the frantic thoughts in his head.

"I'm warning you," Prussia said again, his voice filled with malice and his eyes striking to kill, "if you take my place, I swear I'll make it the last place you ever stand, buddy." He threw him down, and turned on his heel.

A sense of rebellion – the same that had overcome him when he spoke to England – filled his mind and Matthew stuttered, "P-Prussia, don't go." Even with the meek tone he used, they were still only a meter apart so it was assured that he could be heard. Color filled his face, and he stared at the ground.

Prussia didn't make any directional movement. His back straightened, and his shoulders shook alongside his arms and hands, but at least he wasn't leaving.

"I – I really don't know what's going on. I don't think you do, either. But I feel such a connection to you; maybe we could help each other. Surely –"

"That's bull."

Matthew froze. "I'm – I'm sorry?" He wasn't familiar with the phrase…

"I said, that's bull! I know what's happening. Don't assume…" His sentences were choppy and broken.

"Don't assume what?" Picking his hat up, Matthew stood again. He didn't place it back on his head, only wrung it nervously between his hands.

Prussia turned sharply. "All of your freaking questions are only proof!" He moved to stand in front of Matthew. "That 'connection' crap you talked about. You really can't tell what that is?"

Matthew felt like he was about to cry, but he couldn't place what exactly for. Maybe it was Prussia's demeaning tone or his vague words. He cleared his throat and answered, "N-No."

Prussia's eyes lit up in a conflicted mess of anger and sympathy – such a strange mixture. "Let me just put this…" He faded off into thought, mouthing words to himself.

Then, in a wave, he said: "Russia's a freaking creepy guy. To little guys, he's really scary. He likes to eat people like you for breakfast. But for some reason, he's always liked talking to you and you're too nice to tell him to back the hell off. England's your caretaker when no one else is around. Like a babysitter, sort of. But not really. France? Well, France is your father, believe it or not. America's your half-brother – you had different fathers, but the same visually-challenged mother. And as for me – you want to know what I am?"

Enlightenment, like a cool blade, split Matthew's heart. It blew his mind how Prussia knew all of his numbers in order – but the insanity he was spewing… simply absurd. Prussia's head must still have been overwhelmed by his recent troubles, and made things up on the spot. Matthew, to spite him, asked, "What are you?"

"Your lover."

Two, small little words made Matthew choke on the air he'd been breathing. "That's – that's crazy," he spat, glaring at him. He didn't like being messed with.

"Why is that crazy?"

He blinked. What an odd question! "W-Well, for one, we're both male. And only females with males can become –"

"What would you say if I told you that the time we come from had male couples that even _got married_?"

Marriage… what was that again?

He knew it occurred outside of the station, but he'd never been outside the station. He didn't know what marriage was, but something else in Prussia's statement popped out at him. "'Time'? What do you mean, 'time we come from'?"

Prussia scowled. "That part comes later."

Over the speakers, Germany's voice said, "Canada, please report to field testing."

Matthew's heart skipped.

It sure had taken them a while to realize he was missing…

"Um…"

"Follow me." Prussia turned around again, and began walking hurriedly down the hallway.

He was disinclined. "But – but field testing's this way," he said, pointing in the opposite direction Prussia was going.

Prussia snapped, "You aren't going to any damned field testing. I told you, you're not taking my place. I'd kill you before I let that happen."

Matthew, at that statement, was even more unwilling to follow him. Prussia was nearly around the corner, so maybe if he stood there, Prussia wouldn't turn back…

But Prussia stopped, right before he would have been gone, and swung his head around. "That wait-and-see-if-they-forget-me act doesn't work on me, Matthew. And I swear, if you don't follow me, one of the Superiors trying to find you will surely take you to that testing thing, and I won't let you go there. So come on."

Matthew frowned a bit. "If I must," he said crudely, following – then he stopped cold. "How'd you know my real name?"

"Oh," Prussia said, "whoops. Slip of the tongue. Well, you won't know if you don't hurry up."

The offer was too tempting to refuse. Matthew swallowed the rest of his fear, and jogged up to stand beside Prussia. "You have to tell me your real name, then, since you know mine – it's only fair," he reasoned.

Prussia said, "You know my real name."

"No I don't."

"Uh yeah, ya do. And that's enough talking, please." Prussia clenched his teeth, and kept walking.

Matthew wasn't sure what to say to that, so he obliged and followed.


	8. chapter seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**: (five starts making sense and zero is blind)

Question marks floating above his head couldn't have made his confusion any clearer. "Now that we're – wherever we are, can you tell me why you've gone crazy?" Matthew asked, frowning. He didn't like the idea that his number five had disappeared and then come back, spouting lies. It made his heart sink.

Prussia locked the door, making Matthew's heart pound faster when he remembered that _I'd kill you_ statement from earlier. "I haven't gone crazy," Prussia said.

Matthew gave him a tired look. Despite never really having a solid conversation before, he felt… like he could be himself in Prussia's presence. He'd try not to, but the option was still there.

A wide black table sat in the middle of the small and dark room. Only one dusty lamp hung from the ceiling, covering the table in light and not much else. He saw one chair, and wasn't sure if there were any more.

"I was actually supposed to leave the station when they 'let me go', like they like to say. But I hid out here." He put his hand out, as a gesture of welcome. "It's not comfortable at all, and no one's used this room for years…" He trailed off, thinking.

Matthew felt a slight… attachment to the room, all of a sudden. It was as if he'd been there before… but he didn't say anything, as per habit. "Um – can I sit down?"

"Yeah, sure." When Matthew sat in the chair with his back to the entrance, Prussia walked around to stand before him. "I don't know how long I have to tell you everything, but, I'll do as much as I can. Is there something you'd like to know first?" He pulled out a ratty stool from under the table and sat.

He couldn't be sure. So many things were flying inside of his head… "I want to know how you knew my numbers."

A pause. "Excuse me?"

Remembering, he blushed. "I mean, why you told me about Russia, England, France and America…" In that order.

Prussia quirked an eyebrow. "You call them your numbers?"

"No," he said.

Prussia shrugged. "Well… I just figured…" He became bashful, rubbing at his head and avoiding eye contact. "…they're the ones most likely to trigger your…" Then, he spoke in a rush. "Relations Reflex. Or, double R."

"What's that?" Matthew asked, though he had the stinging feeling that he already knew.

"It's… well, it's your mind trying to fight against certain emotions. Ones like love, hate, admiration… so when you see someone who should be making you feel that way, your mind makes your body go out of control in order to fight it. It was programmed initially… and everyone's got it, but no one talks about it." He shrugged again. "And Russia, England, France, America and I are the ones closest to you."

Matthew begged to differ. "'Closest to me'? But I've barely talked to them!"

Prussia seemed to snap. Laughter poured from his mouth, and he bent over the table. He was shaking with his arms wrapped around his midsection. It was a cackling sound that echoed from the walls and spread throughout the room.

Matthew wanted to be creeped-out, but he only felt sympathy. That was strange.

Finally, with his eyes glazed in tears, Prussia looked up. "I'm sorry there, Mattie. That's just… the funniest thing I've heard for a long time. Thank you." A few chuckles were still left over, and he grinned. "Nah. You've spent your whole life with these people."

"Yes, obviously… we were all given to the station when we were only two years old. We don't remember anything else than these people. But that doesn't mean I've ever talked to them…"

Slowly, Prussia shook his head. "No, that's not true… they simply wiped your memory, that's why you don't remember. Doesn't matter how old you were. At the blank look, he pleaded, "…Please tell me you're getting this, Matthew. It's so important…"

"I'm…" He swallowed. "…trying to understand…"

"I mean, I'm telling you this because I think you'd comprehend, unlike my brainwashed brother… and, to tell you the truth, you're still really important to me."

Matthew's throat was going dry. "'Brother'?" he quipped, ignoring the rest of it.

Prussia looked pained. "Well, uh, you know – Germany."

That took him by surprise. "Really?" Then he remembered what Prussia had said about his own brother. "You said America's my half-brother… does everyone have a sibling?"

"…More or less."

"Oh." He fell silent as a migraine crawled across his head.

Prussia sighed heavily. "You believin' me so far?"

Matthew wasn't sure. "…More or less," he replied.

Torn, he tugged at his white hair. Then, when he looked up into Matthew's eyes, inspiration hit him. "I know how I can prove the brainwashing part," he said smugly.

"Really?"

"Yes. Here, listen to this: your eyes are naturally purple."

Matthew smirked. "No, not _naturally_," he corrected, feeling a bit better when he could prove Prussia was being silly. "_Artificially_." He remembered what France had said. "My eyes would have been blue if I hadn't needed that corrective surgery," he added uselessly.

"How do you know your eyesight had ever been corrected?"

Now, Matthew was getting confused again. Prussia had started talking in circles. "…Because my eyes are purple. Obviously."

Prussia, annoyed, stood. He walked to the very far back of the room, rested his lower back against the wall and asked, "How many pins are on my hat? Can you see them?"

"No, because you're so far away. No one can see that far!" He smiled a bit. That was a funny idea, being able to see all the way across a room…

Prussia crossed his arms. "Alright. Put your hat on _your_ head, then."

Matthew did so.

"Now, keep this in mind: I haven't seen your hat, since it fell off in the hallway." He cleared his throat, preparing for an audacious announcement: "You've got three pins on your hat. One for bravery, one for excellence, and the last one is your personal image – that maple leaf."

His heart skipped, jumping into his throat and constricting him. "How… how can you see that far?"

"_Everyone_ can see this far!" Prussia exclaimed. "You're a special case! Your eyes are abnormally colored, and you have less-than-normal eyesight. Unfortunately, when they told you that they had performed such a surgery, they were lying. They tell everyone with weird colored eyes that. They told me that, too, but I'm not like you – I have normal eyesight. So you got a bad bargain. You can't see well, but you think that everyone else sees just like you do. Am I making sense?"

"Yes," Matthew said, frowning, but starting to become curious. He fingered his hat, twirling his personal pin. "What did you say this was?"

Prussia came closer, and he was wearing a soft smirk. As he sat down, he said, "A maple leaf."

"Huh. I always wondered. It just looks so weird…"

With a grunt of disagreement, Prussia shook his head. "No, don't call it weird… but the leaf isn't that important."

"What about… what about my brother?" The title fit so perfectly to Matthew. It was what he had wanted to call America all along, and he couldn't help smiling. "He was told he had the surgery, too."

Prussia frowned. "…I don't know for sure, but I think Alfred's the same as you…"

Matthew asked, "How do you know his name? Do you know everyone's real name?"

Nodding, he said, "Everyone knows everyone's real name, but they don't know that they do."

He remembered what Prussia had said earlier, about him knowing the real names too. "Do I know them?"

"Yes, of course! You're not excluded!"

"But how do you know?"

There was a moment that Prussia seemed reluctant to speak. "Well, I got my memory back."

Matthew was stunned. If all that Prussia was saying was true… "But how?"

A smile, weak and half-hearted, split his lips. "_You_ were the one to give it back to me."


	9. chapter eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**: (five's red box and zero's memory zero)

Again, Matthew felt dubious about Prussia's story. "I – I couldn't have possibly told you that. _I_ didn't even know!"

"Your past self told me."

It was Matthew's turn to laugh. "Oh, please. Like what – _time travel_? It never worked! You know that was put away centuries ago!"

"Was it?"

Matthew frowned. Then, a notion popped up. "…You don't mean…?"

Prussia smiled. "Nah, I'm just kidding. No time travel, but your past self _did_ remind me!" He kept saying it: past self.

Past self; as if it was supposed to mean something.

In order to clear his train of thought – it was obvious Prussia wasn't give up the information directly, so he'd have to guess – he asked, "What do you mean by past self, then? For all I know, this is the only me…"

Reaching out, Prussia took Matthew's hat, and looked fondly at the maple leaf. "The you before your memory was wiped… I remember ya well."

Matthew couldn't help but smile a bit. "Nah… I would have had, you know, what the science fiction books say – a start in memory somewhere at an advanced age, where it would be possible for my memory to have been wiped. But I don't. I can remember being around nine here."

"Heh, okay then," Prussia said amusedly, before sighing. "I really didn't want to do it this way, but… do you want me to show you _proof_ that you once had a life before they took it all away from you?"

He was intrigued, to say the least. His headache was still going strong, but he assumed that whatever the 'proof' was couldn't hurt him more then the double R had. He smiled, faintly. "Sure. Go ahead."

Prussia warned, "…Are ya sure? I mean, this'll change your life forever. And it might have a physical effect on you, as well… when it happened to me, it sure did. But maybe that was because I was first."

For a while, he simply sat there, his eyes closed, waiting for Matthew to refuse. He said then in an exhale, when nothing came up, "Okay. Ah. Do as I tell you. For me, simply touching this object made me remember – but I think that's 'cause it means much more to me. I think…" He smiled sadly, as an idea came to him. "I think we might have to do a little reenacting for you."

Prussia pulled out a small red box. White ribbon was tied around it, making a plus sign. It arched in the middle with a small bow. Prussia put it in the center of the table. He looked cautiously to Matthew. "…Anything yet?"

"No," Matthew said, as he stared, with scrunched eyebrows at the box. Where had he seen that before? "Though it does look a bit familiar."

"Understatement of the century," Prussia mumbled, before pushing it toward him. "Alright. Now, don't do _any_thing until I explain _every_thing.

"What I want you to do is take that box, and hand it to me, saying, 'Here, Gilbert, this is for you!'

"I'll take care of the rest."

"Gilbert… Is that your name?"

Prussia's eyes flashed. "Please, make this easier on the both of us. Just do it."

Matthew didn't know what good any of that would do. He picked up the box – felt a spark – and extended it toward Prussia – his movements suddenly felt like water – and quoted, "Here, Gilbert. This is…" The room began to morph. The dark colors became bright and _homely_. "…for you..."

Prussia – no, that wasn't Prussia. That was Gilbert, suddenly clad in a baggy white t-shirt and red sweatpants. He took the box, grinning widely as he did so.

All at once, they weren't sitting in that room. Gilbert was sitting on a large red couch, and Matthew was sitting on a low table in front of him.

His own sleeves were extremely baggy and hung over his hands… he was wearing a huge sweatshirt with some sort of yellow, white and black flag on it… Matthew didn't know where he had gotten such an outfit, but for some reason it smelled of… Gilbert?

White, powered-sugar like stuff was falling outside of the window, making a pile at the bottom.

That was an odd weather condition! Having sugar fall from outside!

Behind him, he felt intense warmth – there was a square area dug into the wall where fire was licking within. In the back of his mind, he felt a surge of panic. Fire in a building? That couldn't be safe. Why wasn't anyone scrambling to put it out? He wanted to, but he couldn't control his body – it was like his movements were preordered and controlled by the situation.

Gilbert smiled, and said, "Thanks, Birdie."

Birdie? What in the world did that mean?

Plucking one of the ribbons loose, Gilbert managed to pull the top off of the box. "What's this?" he asked, taking out a wide golden ring. His grin stretched in amazement.

And then, when Matthew was about to reply with an answer he didn't even know, he was back in that dark, dismal room, as quickly as he'd left – he was back in the station, with _Prussia_. It all happened within the blink of an eye.

"Mattie, you-who. _What's this_?" Prussia was waving the ring before him, seeing if the other remembered. "Can you tell me?"

Matthew jumped so violently that his knee hit the bottom of the table. "What in the world just happened?" he yelled, a fresh sense of hysteria settling over him. He had been in that room, then somewhere completely foreign (and yet so familiar), and then back in the room.

How was he supposed to hold onto his sanity when everything was shifting around him?

Prussia seemed surprised, though a lick of contentment was displayed. "Whoa, there. Calm down. It was the _memory_ of the day _your past self_ gave _this _to _me_." He accentuated everything in the statement that he thought necessary. "Instead of just remembering, I guess you were sort of put into that memory; like you were playing it all out, am I right?"

The way Prussia was able to describe the sensation in such perfect words was astounding. "…Yeah…" Matthew was a bit breathless, but his comments were burning his tongue so badly he said them all: "But when I was there, nothing made sense! The fire, the sugar, nothing! But now that I sit here… I know that the fire was for warmth; that wasn't sugar, it was snow, and the snow was the reason for the fire; I was wearing your sweatshirt because I didn't want to be bothered to find my own that morning…" He turned wide and frightened eyes onto the other man.

Happy, Prussia smiled. "That's exactly right. See, now you've got your memory back. Simple as that. It took me a few days to remember everything, but you're on your way!"

Prussia had shattered his reality in the same way he had shattered that coffee mug.


	10. chapter nine

**CHAPTER NINE**: (zero knows the birds but not the bees and five remembers the invisible roses)

"What _is_ that ring?" Matthew asked, annoyed at something that could change worlds so easily.

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "It's not magic, if that's what you're thinking," he said, catching the other's incredulous eyes. "You probably know this now, but after you gave this to me you said, 'As long as you have this, we'll be together forever.' At the time, I laughed at you for being cheesy, but now…"

Somber, his lips fell into a frown, and he slid the ring onto his finger. He dropped the previous articulation and whispered forlornly, "…You always could pick out the right gifts…"

He wanted to feel flattered, but he was too overwhelmed. "But… now that I think about it… when we were all brought here…" By 'here', he meant the station he was sitting in. "…we were searched for any personal belongings, and everything was taken…" He could remember feeling so cheated… but who had cheated him? "How had that ring survived? Where did you find it?"

Prussia laughed normally this time – a laugh Matthew knew almost intimately, now. "You're jumping to conclusions there, Birdie." He winked, the deep red of his eye blinking out like a headlight before coming back. "I didn't even find it myself."

Fluttering his eyelids in confusion, Matthew said, "Then how…?"

"Do you remember why I call you Birdie yet?"

He did have to think about it for a moment, and then it hit him so hard he gasped, "_Gilbird_!"

"Ding-ding-ding, we haaaaave a winner," Prussia cried. He grinned. "My awesome Gilbird hadn't been taken or anything! He was so worried over his master that he managed to find me again, carrying this box! I was extremely lucky. I don't know how Gilbird did it, but I'm sure as hell not complaining!"

Awesome. He nearly sighed in bliss at the sound of it. He hadn't heard that word in so long… Matthew, for the first time since the life-changing news had hit home, smiled. "Yes. Gilbird _is_ awesome…"

Awesome. That had to be his new favorite word…

"Maybe," Prussia hypothesized, "Kuma-jee-what's-it's had something to do with it…"

"Kumajirou," said Matthew, fondly. "I don't know if he'd get off of his lazy butt long enough to help… maybe when he got hungry…" It scared him. Words that wouldn't have made sense to him ten minutes ago simply flowed. It felt like a game then, when he thought about it, as he tried to remember as much as he could and convey it to Prussia.

"Ah, right. See, he could never remember your name so I decided to forget his."

Matthew laughed, recalling the incident. "He didn't _care_!"

So Prussia was recuperating in this game…

"Yeah, that stupid bear…" Suddenly, he leaned back a bit, and spread his arms out wide. "Now, that's enough down Memory Lane. I have to let you go some time, right? Let me just ask you this: do you remember this room?" Prussia asked, a bit more passionate than usual, as if trying to use excitement to cover something else up.

Matthew looked up at everything, and he did. He did remember what had happened there… at the moment it had happened, it had felt like nothing; but now he knew it had meant _everything_. "This… this is the room they brought me in…" He looked at Prussia for confirmation, "after my memory was cleared. They asked me things about my life to see if I still remembered. The people, the places, the objects… And I didn't. I had just thought it was a survey…" He faded, uncomfortable. "They asked me about you… about my brother… but I had no clue who either of you _were_…"

Prussia nodded, looking reserved in his emotions but his grin simply wouldn't die. He was happy to change the subject. "So proud of you. It's so much easier to talk with someone who remembers. See, you're the only one with a connection to this ring, and it's the only thing I have. I hope to eventually… you know, bring everyone back. They're… just not the same." He brought out an example. "Like Francis, for instance."

Francis sounded enough like France that Matthew made the connection easily. "Oh, yeah. What about him?" He couldn't forget – France was his father. He suddenly felt a bit giddy.

"He doesn't do his little '_mon chéri_'s and '_oui_'s anymore." His accent was very off, but he didn't care. "Though I think that they _made_ him stop doing that."

Matthew suddenly realized something. "When he was talking to me, I think he almost said ___mon chéri_, but he stopped himself." His accent was still spot-on.

"And what about those damn roses he'd pull out of thin air and throw at people, telling them about the_ l'amour_ he felt in the room?" Gilbert – the name was starting to become comfortable – frowned. "Man, I used to find it annoying – especially when he'd do it when I was talking to you, during the four or so months after I had told him I liked ya and before I had told you – but now I'd _kill_ for him to do it again!"

He couldn't stop the tiny smile that flickered over his lips – he could now remember that awkward period of time where Gilbert would act so flustered around him whenever Francis within a radius.

But the ending phrase Prussia had used brought up something unpleasant. "That reminds me," Matthew said, changing from blissfully reminiscent to suspicious. "What did you mean earlier when you said you'd 'rather kill me than let me take your spot'? That wasn't jealousy, was it?"

Lightening ripped across his mind, making his skin sizzle. Things unpleasant filled his head, and Gilbert suddenly didn't seem in the mood for conversation. He fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt nervously. "That's… that's not even relevant anymore," he said, trying to get back his normal tone of voice, trying to make himself stop shaking. "No questions about the A section, alright? You're not even eligible for joining now that you've missed the testing."

He was torn between disappointment and gratitude. But he settled and said nothing.

Gilbert stood up – no, it wasn't Gilbert; he was Prussia then – and the ring was put back in its box. With that box in his pocket, he pressed his palms against the table and said, "When they ask you where you've been, say you were sick."

"They wouldn't believe –"

"Your father would. And he'd defend you if need be." The grin was absolutely malevolent.

"That – that's just mean," Matthew dismissed, but he knew he'd end up using the excuse, one way or another.

Prussia shrugged. "Use what you've got while you've got it!" He fixed some of the wrinkles in his uniform, ran his fingers through his hair. When they caught on a clump of tangled strands, he cursed. "I really need a wash…"


	11. chapter ten

**CHAPTER TEN**: (zero's memories and culture shock)

When Matthew made it back to his room without seeing anyone, he made sure the door was completely locked behind him before he collapsed on his bed. He wasn't exhausted – he didn't think he'd ever been more awake – he just needed to be able to press his pillow to his face and scream. He screamed louder than he ever had – before that day, he hadn't even had any reasons to scream – and for so long that when he stopped, he was breathless.

In that room with Prussia (Gilbert? Prussia? _Gilbert_?), he couldn't show how scared he was. It had been impossible. A delicate façade had come over him without him intentionally wanting it, and Prussia had looked so excited that Matthew was able to get his memories back.

But now, Matthew didn't want them.

He had a pet bear? He lived with a man who owned a pet bird? He hadn't even known that animals – that was the word in his memory – existed! They had just been things in stories… but they were real? And still _were_ real?

Then, he figured, he shouldn't be focusing on the animals. (Recently, his priorities kept mixing up.)

He lived with a man! And with that man, he had had a relationship that only females and males partook in! What was wrong with his past self? (Prussia had used the term past self, and he found it appropriate so he kept it going.)

Ugh… he flipped through his new memories like a book. A book that _he just couldn't throw out the window_, like he often imagined doing to bad novels.

He suddenly sat up on his knees, and his hat fell on his lap. He picked it up accusingly. It had been the thing that let Prussia show him that his whole eyesight/eye color-fiasco had been a lie from the start! Stupid hat… and the maple leaf. He brought it closer to his face. (He didn't want to admit it, especially not then, but he couldn't really see it…)

Now he could remember what that leaf stood for. Basically, it stood for Canada. And he used to live in Canada. It snowed in Canada, there were bears…

From history books, he had learned that everyone's name was, in fact, based on a country, but he had never felt… so connected to his name. He – Matthew Williams – once lived in Canada.

_Again_, he was focusing on the positives. Why couldn't he be pessimistic when it really counted?

Him and Prussia! Together like that! How was that possible? Why hadn't they been… well, _arrested_ or something?

And then it hit him.

In present day, it wasn't that males weren't _allowed_ to be together, it was just that no one had _thought_ of it...

Matthew's heart skipped, and his face flushed. The pillow he had poured his emotion into was clutched against his chest. If his new memory served him right, he could recall many other men that had been in a relationship like that… and he presently encountered them daily!

Shuddering, he shook his head.

For instance, he had a vivid image of the past of Germany and NorthItaly (both in the A section) being… well, like _that_. And now, they worked together. Maybe they both had Relations Reflex, like Prussia had said, and had to go through it daily.

If they had someone to rise up and say that such couples were perfectly alright, would they…?

Matthew didn't want to think about it. He was sure he couldn't handle such a sacrifice… if it was even a sacrifice at all. In all of his memories, his past self seemed _so happy_ (happier than he could ever remember being) around Gilbert and doing… _those things_.

But that was his past self. He wasn't the same, right?

…Even if Prussia seemed to think so…

And when he thought about it, Gilbert hadn't seemed to change at all, except for one vital thing that Matthew was sure there was a reason for: why wasn't he declaring his awesomeness? Even if his past self had first found it annoying, and then gotten used to it, Matthew wanted to see how he'd feel if it started again.

Before the memory, Matthew hadn't known the word existed.

But Gilbert had only used the word 'awesome' to refer to his bird…

He left that thought, and tried to think of something else…

How could _he_ have changed so much, and yet _Gilbert_ seemed (more-or-less) intact?

Bewildering. It was simply bewildering.

And even though Matthew had managed to remember quite a lot, there were blanks spots in his memory. He couldn't remember why or how his memory had been erased in the first place, how everyone had gotten here, where they were, or who was behind it all! (In their conversation, both Matthew and Gilbert had referred to the opposing force as 'them' or 'they' – but Matthew honestly had no clue. Did Gilbert?)

For all of his effort, he received another migraine. Wincing, he dropped his pillow and fell face-first into it again. Maybe he would get more memories in his sleep?

…But then he wouldn't be able to tell if they were _memories_ or _dreams_…

He was rambling incoherently in his own mind, and it was driving him crazy.


	12. chapter eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**: (three is infuriated and zero isn't completely there)

The moment he woke up, a massive feeling – when he searched his now extensive memory, he found the closest word to be 'hangover', even though there had been nothing alcoholic consumed the night before – was covering his whole body. The Monitor was alight and beeping from across the room, and the only way to turn it off was from manual manipulation – but that would mean he'd have to get up.

And his eyes just couldn't open.

Matthew was usually a morning person – so the situation of being trapped under his blankets while (mostly) fully conscious was awkward, though not entirely uncomfortable. Every time he tried to open his eyes, they'd flutter closed, along with a misty sense of pain. The light was simply terrorizing. Whenever he tried to push his blankets from his body or move his head, an unpleasant tingle would erupt all over his skin.

It was more annoying than The Monitor's constant droning, even when an automated voice started to drill, "_You must awaken. You must awaken. You must awaken."_

Even as he heard thunderous footsteps come toward his doorway, he couldn't move. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead in trepidation, and his throat began to go dry from fear, but he still couldn't move. He felt paralyzed. His blanket rested on his hips, and he wasn't wearing a shirt (which was good – a sharp heat was coming over his body, and if he had anymore clothing, he was sure to implode).

And then those echoing sounds of feet seemed to be right on top of him, and he groaned and felt ill, the sounds bouncing around his skull.

His door pushed open – no knock, no warning, it simply _exploded_ – and a large form draped a shadow over him.

The shadow was calm and cool, welcomed by his skin – but the figure casting it was not.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice was overpowering. It filled Matthew's head, and he nearly screamed with the agony it caused his mind. "You were supposed to be up twenty minutes ago."

"_You must awaken. You must awaken. You must awaken_…"

"Open your eyes, Canada! I am speaking to you." The shadow moved over to slam The Monitor into silence.

"_Your tardiness is noted_," said The Monitor, before it quieted.

"Complete tardiness!" The shadow roared, repeating a fact for importance.

Matthew knew it wasn't a _shadow_ talking, per say, but he it thought it amusing to believe it was. "I…" A weak, wet thread of noise was that singular word – lost and forgotten by the larger form; even Matthew didn't know where he was going with it.

"You missed your judging yesterday, and now you have the _idiocy_ to sleep _in_? What is _wrong_ with you?"

He twisted his head away. Curly locks of hair fell, sticky and frizzed, over his eyebrows. "…What _is_ wrong with me…" he murmured to himself, quietly and delicately, and he finally pried his eyes open.

Slits of vision presented themselves to his conscious, but they were blurred and dizzy, since he _apparently didn't have adequate eyesight_.

Rolls of pain danced over his head.

Suddenly, a lighter, but all the more fast, set of footfalls were coming toward him.

Gasping and flushed, France (France? Francis? France? _Dad_?) fell in a mass against the side of his doorway. "My, my, Germany," he ventilated, "those muscles in your legs aren't just for show…" Shallow breaths separated his dry lips, and he placed his hands on his thighs as he panted.

Matthew smiled, though the side of his mouth quivered violently against the action. It was a smile inspired by memorial stimulation, activated by a delirious notion that... maybe... just maybe... he could show his ultimate confusion with a twitch.

"I told you!" France cried out loudly, his voice sounding so desperate as it played with his breathless state. He collapsed onto his knees beside Matthew. Tender hands passed though the younger's hair, feeling the sweat and assessing the heat. Then they rested on the side of his face, soft and understanding.

France reared his head angrily to Germany, the being who was the shadow that filled up the whole room – and he overtook the status. "Have I _ever_ lied to you? I explained that Canada is _ill_! You _cannot_ come barging in his room… So what if he's trying to catch more sleep? He obviously needs it! Oh, Canada; oh, Canada…" France fell silent, sympathetically staring at the other. Wide blue eyes met dilated purple ones.

Matthew's crazy smile was still there, if faded faint, and awkward. "Thank… you…"

"Please don't speak," said France, moving hair away from his face. He laughed under his kind breath, a quiet undertone to accentuate his words. "Save your voice."

All at once, Germany felt as if he was taking up space at that moment. His natural need for authority demanded a shout from his throat: "Fine then! Take him to the infirmary, if he's so wretchedly sick!"

France looked at him, annoyed, but hurried. "Could you _help_ me here? I don't have the bulging muscles that you have…" He raised an eyebrow, staring at the calves bulging out from under Germany's tight slacks, and then he quickly shook off the expression.

Reluctant, Germany shook his head. "I'll... I'll dial them." If Matthew was really diseased, he didn't want to touch the balmy skin. He approached The Monitor, and turned it on with a swift touch. It lit up again, welcoming the human contact. It said,

"_Good morning._"

While Germany went through the proper preparations on the Monitor, and then used the telephone feature to speak to those in the infirmary, France was telling soothing words to Matthew. But those words were skipping in thought and mumbled in initiation. "You'll be okay within a few days, don't you worry… Germany was angry at you for being late, so that's why he ran out here, normally he doesn't, but I did tell him you were sick… Just... just a few pills and you'll be on your way… You'll be okay…" Trembling eyes blurred out, losing connection with reality, lost, before refocusing.

Matthew felt at ease then, a liquefied sense of relief wrapping over his thoughts. And with that, he relieved his mouth of the smile; letting go of the barrier between them. He said sincerely, "Thank you…" He stopped, as he swallowed against a sudden rise of bile in his throat – interrupted.

France shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Didn't I tell you?" Just as he was about to discipline further, Matthew found the strength to finish what he didn't mean to convey:

"…Dad…"

France received the fleeting thought that whatever Matthew had was contagious, because a wave of nausea came over his body. He smiled in disbelief. "What are you talking about? I'm… I'm _not_ your… your…" But something pierced his heart like a bullet, and he was silent, timely.

Matthew became limp in his bed, falling from grace like broken glass.


	13. chapter twelve

**CHAPTER TWELEVE**: (little girls in lab coats and zero's endless questions)

Matthew woke up somewhere unfamiliar, replaying the dream in his head.

But the more he replayed it, the more he slowly began to realize that it hadn't been a dream.

Germany had actually barged into his room, angry beyond belief; France actually had spoken to him so kindly, and defended him on his behalf; and Matthew had actually called France out as his father.

What was he _thinking_?

Oh, that's right – he _hadn't_ been thinking. His mind had been numbed by his arching fever, and his thoughts, whenever they came, were heated and unintelligent. He hadn't been able to sort through them, so his mouth had taken the incentive and simply spoke…

…and spilled secrets that weren't his.

How would Prussia respond? What would become of France?

And where exactly was he?

Matthew blinked a few times, as reality became more prominent. He took in the white walls, stiff and clean-smelling blankets, the health posters, and the spotless sink and counters beside him, and drew a conclusion.

He was in the infirmary that Germany had been talking about.

Oh, that couldn't be good.

He attempted to rise, his hands fisted in the blankets as he straightened his back. He was just about to fully sit up when the door opened.

Matthew fell back in a painful slump, surprised beyond physical retaliation.

The little girl that had opened the door stopped upon seeing him. "Oh, you're awake."

He wanted to reply that no, he wasn't; he wasn't really; but he kept silent, looking at her from under narrowed eyelids.

"I'll – I'll just get the doctor, then," she said. Her voice was extremely quiet, quieter than Matthew's own – Matthew even felt unwilling to speak to her, in case his voice was too loud and would startle the seemingly fragile girl.

He waved a careless hand at her, and then rolled his head away.

She smiled comfortingly at him – why was that? He wondered; was he in critical condition? – and then she disappeared back behind the open doorway, like a ghoul that had never really been there.

Matthew closed his eyes, resting for a precious moment. It felt so nice, comparably to what a mess he'd been that morning… swirls of cold were going around in his head, and the air conditioning was just right… but anyway, what time was it? If the… _situation_ had happened that morning, what time could it possibly be?

He opened his eyes casually, trying to find a clock, or maybe a Monitor, but was met with a mop of blonde hair and wide eyes. Taken aback, he emitted a yelp.

"Calm down, will you!" said the owner of the face, inches next to him. It was crisp and precise. "I haven't even touched you yet. What are you, super-sensitive?" There was a pessimistic drag in that voice, carrying it down into something low and dismal… apathetic, was the word that came to Matthew first.

It made Matthew wince, and he stared into unfamiliar eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm a Terror." The person looked away from him, in dead seriousness. They scribbled on a vanilla clipboard.

"Wha – what?" Matthew's skin turned to ice, his hair stood on end –

"I'm kidding you." The joke was lifted, as suddenly as it had fallen. "Who else in the world could I be? I'm your doctor; this is an infirmary. Goodness gracious, you must have hit your head!"

Involuntarily, Matthew fingered the back of his scalp. He couldn't remember any incident of injury, but who knew…

"You didn't hit your head," the doctor said irritably, catching his patient's worried expression and unsure manipulations. "I'm just messing with you. I'm a funny guy like that," he ended sarcastically, rolling his eyes around the room before looking back to the papers in his hand.

Matthew felt the need to begin crying of frustration (confusion?) but he suppressed it, not knowing its origin. Tears did begin to burn his pupils, however.

The blonde doctor rolled his eyes again at him and explained, "Listen. I really don't have to do that much, okay? Just tell me if you're hurting any more so I can know if the medicine you received has been accepted into your system. No pain, no jokes, alright?"

Matthew hadn't really been in touch with his physical being since he had awoken – he had only been focused on the room around him – so he took a deep breath, tweaking receptors beneath his skin and trying to find an ounce of discomfort.

He found one.

"My head – it's pounding," he said, placing both hands in his hair, his temples against the moon of his palm and kneading the skin (the temperature of which was quickly exceeding normal).

The doctor stood up straighter, alarmed, loosely dropping the clipboard onto the counter; then he leaned a bit to see the top of his patient's head. "Let me see," he demolished, moving Matthew's hands and replacing them with his own. "You don't have any bumps, scratches or anything…" He pushed away tangled and sweaty webs of hair, frowning with half of his face. "So it's primarily internal?"

Those tears became more of a problem for him. His jaw, slack, began to quiver. He was at a loss for intelligent words. "It's pounding from the inside," Matthew rephrased, whining like a child.

The doctor huffed, pulling out a pen from his cloak and clicking it. "Great. Now I have _more_ work to do." He scratched the counter as he pulled his clipboard back up; he began writing again.

Matthew looked at him in surprise, momentarily squeezing through his discomfort to suppress his growing curiosity. "Why are you a doctor, then," he asked, suddenly perceptible, "if you don't like treating people when they're hurt?"

A scowl, seemingly natural, passed over his face. He shook his head back and forth, the long blonde locks caressing his cheeks. "Is it so wrong that I don't want to fight?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want to fight this stupid war."

_War? _Matthew's heart began to convulse uncertainly.

"But I have to do something. So the only thing that's not fighting is healing," the doctor explained, monotone and tranquil as he scrawled something final down on Matthew's chart.

"There's always…" Matthew guessed, a twist of naivety beneath his words; he began sorting through his hair again, "being neutral. You know, not fighting, but not helping, either."

The doctor laughed. "Silly kid," he said, as he left with an amused grin, "I _am_ neutral."


	14. chapter thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**: (zero's memory one)

Matthew was alone again, sitting upright in a clean infirmary bed, listening only to the painful contractions of his mind.

First thing was… war.

The whole thing against Terrors… was war?

He had been told it was simply survival; the Terrors were uncontrollable beasts that inhabited the world they lived and attacked on whim; everyone was trained to overtake them, using special planes and sending missiles down from the air.

But were they really?

If not, then… what in the world were they?

Matthew remembered that his memory was advanced, now. Maybe he could try to recall something from his past life that could show him exactly what they were fighting against, and why and how it started? He was nervous, but determined. Who knew what he'd uncover?

He laid back again, palms fisting at his hairline as he clenched his eyes shut and tried to remember. He didn't know how to navigate through his thoughts exactly, so he simply let come what came.

Like letting water flow from a destroyed dam.

Dam… he could barely recall what it was, or how it related to water, but it sounded like one of the multiple curse words Gilbert used…

Gilbert. He was apparently, what did he call it, Matthew's 'lover' from a past life…

His thought process brought along results. A memory exploded behind his eyes.

Suddenly, he was in a dark room, surrounded by stars… or maybe it was just star-studded wallpaper that was even plastered on the floor to give the feeling that he was hanging in space. And beside him, Gilbert floated, enraged and thrashing against invisible forces that restrained his extremities.

"I can't let you fucking do this!" Gilbert shouted, veins protruding from his neck and arms, flexing with every movement he possessed. "Let… me _go_!" The last part… was said to someone else. Who?

Matthew felt an urge to help him; to free him from whatever it was that held him. But he didn't. He couldn't. All he had was a small frown on his lips, and he watched Gilbert blankly. He felt the fleeting sensation that something was holding onto him as well, only there in case he, too, was to go as insane as Gilbert had.

Matthew wondered what was going on; what memory was he reliving?

A strong light began to pool out in front of them, and Matthew instantly had his gaze drawn solely towards it. All of his thoughts came over him. The light was so bright, so free. It called out his name, sweetly, evenly, quietly:

_Matthew… Matthew…_

He felt a safeness that hadn't occurred to him for weeks, months. He _needed_ this comfort that was breaching out to him!

So he put out a quivering hand… let it hang there, empty, waiting for the white solace so high above him to grasp it.

"No! Matthew, what the hell are you doing? Get away from that thing, get away!" Gilbert screeched, back arching as he tried to rear away from the spot he was fixated to, tried to get closer to Matthew; to save him from his self.

An electric train of reality travelled over the extent of Matthew's arm. It dropped. He turned to the source of the noise. (Noise? Voice!)

Matthew _heard_ Gilbert's voice, but it sounded as if cotton was in his ears; the voice, and also all of the clamor around him (there was also a sort of sucking sound surrounding them, as if the whole room - if it was even a room - was being deprived of its oxygen). It was perceived to him as muffled and unimportant. He stared into that light again, finding nothing better to do.

_Matthew…_

"Matthew!"

_Mat~thew…_

His name was being whispered tenderly to him;

It was being shouted, pleaded, and begged.

"Matthew, please, _no_! You're the only thing I have left in the world! Don't you dare… you can't fucking… _you can't fucking leave me_!" Vibrations of voice so familiar to him were transpiring in a way he'd never heard.

A pause. A pause ripped through his mind, bringing him away from that light, and looking to the person who was speaking so despairingly to him once more.

Before he had realized it, his hand had shot out again.

Tears fell from Gilbert's cheeks, and he had stopped fighting. He stared, resolutely at Matthew, with his shoulders quaking.

"Clear your head," Gilbert conveyed, his words cracking and syllables falling to dust. "They get into your thoughts! Just go numb, and you'll be free."

Freedom… wasn't that what he wanted?

Matthew tried that, if only for Gilbert's sake, because he didn't find much good in it. He dropped his hovering hand, and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to get an empty trail of thought that would last him forever – longer than forever.

He closed his eyes.

He pretended to be somewhere else, somewhere nice and cool, somewhere where Gilbert was right beside him and kind.

It gave him an extra two minutes.

But all too soon, that light intensified ten-fold, prying his eyes into slits. That time, he used his hands to shield his vision from the light. The light ceased to be the comforting, welcoming presence that it was before – it had gotten impatient, and now was coming toward him, forcing him to be enveloped in it.

Even Gilbert seemed to be having trouble fighting.

Gilbert's teeth were clenched tightly against one another, grinding, cutting, and he turned his head to the side. He needed his last sight to be Matthew. His hair was pulled against his face as it moved toward the light, free and wispy.

"No – it can't – I won't let it – ...urgh..."

Gilbert's voice fell silent, strangled from him, and when it did, Matthew lost all hope.

He sat up with a gasp.

Presently he was back in the infirmary, the memory mulling over in his head.

He realized that those few moments had been the last of his previous life – those were the seconds before his mind had been wiped and reality had shattered.

But that wasn't really true.

In the memory, Matthew and Gilbert had seemed to be loitering up in space, with transparent beings clasping their arms.

That simply wasn't true.

Matthew could recall that when it had physically occurred, they had been in an open field. Green grass was tall and ungroomed, rising to their knees, which had made running difficult… yes, they had been running… running from… running from... running from who... Their brothers…

Was that right?

Yes, it was.

When Matthew thought about it, he remembered that his half-brother and Gilbert's younger brother had been the first to be 'overcome by that light', as he'd put it. They had tracked down everyone else, putting them into 'the light' too. Matthew and Gilbert had been the only ones left, since Matthew was constantly forgotten and Gilbert was a person people constantly _tried_ to forget.

What?

Matthew shook his head, preferring not to get off-course. So their brothers had chased them down, and finally gotten a hold of them… that was that feeling of suppression that had been represented invisibly in his memory: their brothers holding onto their arms and bodies, keeping them trained in place.

And that light… what had that been again?

Oh, right.

How could he have forgotten?

That actually had been the end of the world.


	15. chapter fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**: (zero's loss of control and the doctor's dangerous needle)

Well, what could Matthew say? Upon reliving the instance of his witness to the end of the world, it was completely natural for him to begin hysteria. He had clutched the blankets with all he had, and simply screamed. Poured out his emotion in an outcry. He kicked his legs wildly moments after he had begun, his horror moving them forward, back again, forward. Seconds later, the door exploded – he winced, fearing the worst.

That time, it hadn't been an angry Germany there before him; it was the neutral doctor, the doctor whose talk of war had troubled him in the first place.

He stopped screaming and gulped down a huge breath before resuming.

"What's going on?" The doctor needed to assess whether or not his patient was shouting from physical trauma; maybe his symptoms had gotten worse. It was possible it was because that headache had gotten extreme, or because of something completely unpredictable. He rushed to the other's side, pulling the man's hands from his face. "What's going on?"

Matthew continued to yell over his words, not even aware of the world around him. His eyes were blurry stars, faraway in an unconcerned universe.

The doctor hissed, more annoyed than concerned, and raised his voice higher to that of his fanatical patient's. "I need you to _calm down_! I can't help you if you don't _calm down_!"

The words broke through. With a splotched flush to his face, Matthew became stubbornly silent. Breathing was labored, and he stared at the doctor with dancing, fiery eyes. His wrists were still being restrained. "You," he demanded. "What's your name?" He was achingly curious. His neck began to dip backward.

Everyone from his past life seemed to be an officer – so then who was this lowly and _neutral_ doctor?

Possibly someone innocent who was dragged into this mess?

Or maybe someone he'd known all along, but just couldn't, for the life of him, remember?

The doctor was taken aback. The sudden clarity was worrying. But since his patient seemed to – albeit very abruptly – be better and without pain, he found no harm in addressing him lightly. "I'm Dr. Switzerland," he said, a furrow in his brow.

Switzerland. Vash… Doctor…

Little girl… Nurse… Lichtenstein! _Lilly_!

With these revealing thoughts, Matthew, nerve endings contracting and veins constricting in his head, started to screech once more.

Switzerland jumped, going again to hold Matthew's arms. The noise was startling. When his quickly spurted words didn't soothe the man like previously, Switzerland decided for drastic action and turned his head to the doorway. "Nurse!" he shouted, as loud and as imploring as he could get; he did have quite a ruckus to raise his voice over, "Nurse! I need assistance in here! Bring the needle!"

Lichtenstein hurriedly appeared in the doorway, seemingly smaller against the instrument held so carefully in her hands. Her eyes were wide, trying to consider the scene before her; but her tender heart stalled, and she became nervous, simply standing there and shifting her weight, as she waited for further instructions.

"No!" Matthew suddenly articulated, tears surrounding his eyes as he looked to the doctor. "Vash, what are you _doing_? Why would you let Lilly hold such a sharp object?"

His voice cracked, sore from its exertion, and so did the atmosphere in the room.

Lichtenstein dropped the needle – it clanged and smashed like glass against the floor – and covered her sharper gasp behind her hands. Swirls of emotion spun behind her eyes, like spiders carefully creating webs.

Switzerland nearly fell, as his knees proved weak and began to shake. He let go of Matthew, the unknown and unwanted entity in the room, and changed to cling to the counter behind him instead. Wide eyes made surprise, but then morphed into secure professionalism.

"Lichtenstein," he ordered, preferring to forget Matthew's use of their names, "that needle, please." He also refused to acknowledge Matthew's inquiry – because all along, he _had_ hated to see that long instrument in her child hands.

It was like _he_ was personally soiling her irreplaceable innocence.

Lichtenstein obliged, if with a startled jump and a small squeak. "I'm so sorry," she said, bending to sit on her heels as she carefully discarded of the item on the floor to the trashcan resting beside her. "That one's n-not sterile anymore… I'll have to get another one."

"_Anything_ to make him stop," Switzerland accented, staring coldly at Matthew.

Matthew had silenced his own screaming, resolutely, but he was still wild. He looked quickly about the room, maybe gauging for exits, or maybe just curious of the exterior; no one could tell. He was frozen. His eyes moved, trapped.

Lichtenstein scurried out of the room, the tips of her dress rising with the gust of her wind.

"What are you doing, man?" Matthew demanded, when Lichtenstein was gone, in a sudden sense of lucidity, appealing to Vash's protection of his sister. He twisted his neck toward him, blades of fire-hot red behind his eyes. "She's going to get _hurt_ if you keep her in this line of business!"

"You're t… talking nonsense," the doctor reprimanded, eyeing the doorway wearily; wanting the needle to get there faster, before his actuality collapsed. "You've obviously… got something else wrong with you that I've simply… missed, that's it, and I'm going to put you under just in case you undergo another bout of involuntary screaming."

"It _wasn't_ involuntary," said Matthew very calmly, causing all pretenses to fall.

It was possible that Matthew was screaming for attention, or for no reason at all, Switzerland reasoned. But how in the world… those things that he said… he couldn't let that slide. He kept his decision to render him unconscious. Switzerland accepted the needle when Lichtenstein came running with it and prepared it. As he flicked the narrowest part, crossing his eyes to stare at only it, he warned, "Don't fidget too much, okay?"

_Don't fidget too much, okay?_

Someone else had said that to him, Matthew remembered. Right as his memory had been cleared, right as the world had ended, and his own brother had moved his lips close to his ear, his arms trapping him to his chest, he had so affectionately advised, "Don't fidget too much, okay, Mattie? That'll just make it hurt more."

Matthew didn't need the syringe. He passed out cold from the reminiscence itself.


	16. chapter fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**: (five is an unexpected visitor and zero sets the ultimatum)

"Matthew… Matthew… Matthew… Oh Matthew…"

A quiet song of his name. He begged for it to continue, spoken in that sweet and kind voice. Was it the light? Was it begging for their unity again? He wanted to appease it, more than anything. Everything hurt… If he reached out a hand, in his dreary state, he could simply –

"Matthew, _come on_. I don't have all day."

The lovely hallucination faded. It changed into a harsh, impatient demand spoken by lips more familiar than his own.

Matthew shifted, a light moan passing through throat.

"Mattie-boy!"

His eyes pried themselves open, and he yawned as he lost his sleep.

It was completely dark, but he knew by the scratchy material beneath him that he was still in the dingy infirmary. The lights were out: the windows were shadows – nighttime? Why was he being awaken during nighttime? Nighttime was for sleeping, and he was so tired…

"Hey, Matthew."

But when he could fully recognize the voice playing itself for him, he became a bit more agreeable. He rolled over to the direction of the voice, and eloquently said, "What are you doing here, Gil?" while mopping his watery eyes.

In the silence, Prussia mentally celebrated over the use of a nickname. "I couldn't come out to see you until everything was shut down," he said. "The Monitors would have seen me."

"…Darn things," Matthew replied, his tongue heavy with sleep and his eyelids beginning to droop.

"Yeah. But anyway, how are you doing?"

Usually, Matthew would have lied. But fatigue riddled his natural reflexes. "My mind's a puddle of goo and I… can't really feel my toes."

"It _is_ awfully cold in here, isn't it?" said Prussia, concernedly looking around and rubbing his hands on his forearms.

Matthew opened his eyes a bit wider. "What do you want?" Gilbert would never pay such obvious attention to the atmosphere around him. But then again, this wasn't exactly his Gilbert…

Prussia's smile was a pleasing sight to Matthew, nonetheless. "I just wanted to congratulate you."

"For _what_?" For getting caught? Nearly spilling their sacred secret?

Was Prussia being sarcastic?

"Apparently, Francis, Lilly, and Vash are getting their memories back, too; and from what I know, you've helped 'em get 'em," Prussia said quickly in excitement, grinning. "This is a really big step!"

Consciousness gripped him hard. He sat fully in his bed, letting the blankets fall to his crossed knees. "What?" Horror painted itself subtly across his features. "Really?"

"Yeah. Whatever you did, you've done what I've been trying to do for a week now."

Sad, Matthew grimaced. "Oh…"

"So what exactly did you do?" he questioned in anticipation. He would have written it down if he had the resources.

Matthew stared at him, still subdued. "I… I guess I was… _blunt_."

"Oh, wow," Prussia emitted, leaning back into the chair he had pulled to Matthew's bedside. "And it worked for _you_? I did the same thing, but…" He faltered, his eyes somewhere else. "I guess I didn't do it right…"

Distracted by his emotions, Matthew mumbled, "Yeah…" He then was quiet, spinning circles in his sheets.

"Hey," Prussia said calmly, finally catching on to the other's demeanor, "why do you look so sad? This is a _major_ improvement here." He patted his friend's back in best wishes.

"It's… it's just…" Matthew rubbed at his arm with his opposite hand. It really _was_ cold. He avoided the other's red gaze. "Now that they're getting their memories back, they'll have to go through… all of these… _relapses_ too, right? And… and I know for a fact that they _aren't_ pleasant."

Prussia's hands instinctively reached out, and hovered above Matthew's own in preparation for a comforting gesture, but he stopped, his extremities going still before he brought them back to his side. He couldn't initiate such personal contact, not yet, no matter how much he wanted and needed to. "Ah, um. But – but remember – it'll be better in the long run, when everyone's at peace again."

Matthew quirked a small gaze to him. "We're not at peace?"

Prussia scoffed. "We're fighting, remember? But I guess you've got a whole lot going on in your head right now…"

Matthew stiffened, his eyes enlarging in fear. "L – Like a war?" he guessed knowingly.

His smile was soft and supportive, only taking up half of his mouth. "You found out, huh."

"Y – Yeah. From Vash…"

He momentarily rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, did he go on and on about being neutral?"

Matthew wasn't sure. "I… You could say that."

"Jeeze." Prussia bent his neck back, staring at the ceiling for a while before replying. He theorized to himself; "How could he have known without his memories? I guess it's just another of his conspiracy theories that were correct."

The words were becoming so terrifying that Matthew swallowed and asked, "What are you trying to say?"

Prussia frowned. "We're… we're fighting against ourselves," he finally admitted, the last facade collapsing like ice.

A break in his thoughts. He went cold. That wasn't possible. "…Come again…?"

Prussia winced, rubbing his hands over his tired face. "The so-called _Terrors_ are duplicates of the people that used to live in our world. Us, basically, and all of the other humans that didn't make it. I think they're like… our souls, or something similar, so that's why they look so weird.

"They didn't transfer our souls when they brought us here, huh.

"Once the Terror is destroyed, the real person it's duplicated soon vanishes. It's what's happening to me, and we have to stop it before it happens to you." A final nod; nothing more.

Way too much information for him to handle. He grasped at whatever sense he could find. "…Wait… What's happening to you? What haven't you told me?"

He had planned on keeping the secret forever. But like that, Prussia had spilled it. His stomach began to roll as he said:

"My duplicate was destroyed… it's the first in the onslaught of duplicates of the people here. Everyone else'll… probably follow."

Prussia sighed, needing to breathe solidly for a minute before he could continue. "Luckily, the first millions or so of duplicates were those who didn't survive the end of the world – you've already remembered that, I hope? – so nothing happened. But just recently some duplicates of the people here have been showing up… all others survived, but I guess my duplicate just wouldn't give up and paid the price… damn wild thing." He tried to find a positive twist, chuckling self-depreciatively. "But there hasn't been an attack since that massive one earlier, the one my duplicate was killed in…" He winced. A shudder grasped his skin. "…by Ivan, of all damn people…"

Matthew had faded within his mind from the beginning of the speech. His eyes searched for answers on the floor beneath them, and then suddenly, connection pushed together. He shook with realization. "No… you're not going to vanish, are you?"

"…Not all at once," Prussia confessed, quietly. "Just… slowly."

Matthew was frozen.

"N-Not painfully, just… slowly."

"But… no," Matthew finally said, shaking his head from left to right repeatedly. "That can't happen… I just _found_ you again!" His heart fluttered very lightly, as if it was barely there. He rose himself onto his knees to face his beloved; his hands grasped at the short hairs around Prussia's ears, tender. "Please… Please don't leave me." He was crying, wasn't he?

"It came down to bad timing," Prussia said quietly, his eyes dulling; it was odd for him to see Matthew so concerned over him. He took it as a good sign – Matthew was becoming Matthew again! He put his hands over Matthew's.

Passion fought quickly throughout his mind, but one became victorious: determination. "We'll get everyone's memory back," Matthew said, as fear filled him to the brim, melancholy tried to choke him, and his own self-doubt inflated like a balloon, "and I'll save you."


	17. chapter sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**: (three's memory zero)

There wasn't a doctor anymore, since the only doctor had fallen ill. There wasn't even a nurse to assist.

How inconvenient.

Matthew faked a smile. "You'll be better within three days' time, I'm sure."

France looked wearily up at him from underneath frayed bangs. "But I'm not too sure…" His chest moved up and down, heatedly. Talking was difficult.

Matthew hadn't been able to help himself. Since there was no one to treat him, Matthew had simply dubbed himself well and hurried to aid France through the agonizing process. Though he was still feeling slight physical unease, he could manage to lean against the room's doorway. "Come on, think positive…"

He was so hypocritical, injecting false hope and pretending to have an ominous power that he was sure only Gilbert had.

"I can barely think," France moaned, pressing his hands against his temples.

Matthew flinched, suppressing the urge to fall at France's bedside. He didn't know what memories France had regained, and didn't want to overpower him; though he was sure that by simply being in his presence he was being harmful. "I know it's hard," he sympathized, "but after it's over you'll understand…" He was being as cryptic as Prussia had been!

France laughed dryly. "But what exactly is this 'it', Canada? I have no absolutely idea what's going on… And no one's making anything any clearer for me…"

So no memories had come to him… it was simply the advanced form of RR that was turning France's body into a restrictive hell.

(Gilbert had explained to him that before the memories came or could come, the Relations Reflex fought against it sinking in, but in cases so far had never been successful.)

Matthew wanted to give France the first memory, since he knew the perfect one.

But he was dissuaded. Would Gilbert accept that? Was he even _allowed_ to give a memory himself? He wasn't even sure if he could, but he really wanted to…

Seeing France, his father, lying on that wide white bed, looking confused and so helpless made him want to do everything in his power to aid him…

But he was tied, and restricted.

Matthew fidgeted.

Slowly, France looked up at him so serenely and said, through a haze of fever, "Your eyes are _such_ a _pretty_ blue…"

Matthew stared, narrowing his eyelids. Was this a crude joke? "What are you talking about? My eyes are purple…"

France laughed, twisting unnaturally at his midsection. Boiling bubbles danced under his skin, turning him red in some places and deathly white in others. "Oh, I know you _believe_ so… but son, they'll never be purple, you know that…"

What was going on? Tiny alarms went off in his head. He had the urge to run and get Gilbert, but he couldn't possibly do that.

And wait, had he said _son_?

France moaned, a weak indicator of pain, and his hands began to shake at his sides. He moved his head away, toward the window. The sunlight streaming from it didn't seem to make him feel any better.

Matthew lost all resolve and moved over beside him. He held the quivering hands against the sheets. "France? France, can you hear me?" He stood over his father, upset.

"Oh, no need to be so formal," France drawled, a loopy smile coming over his lips, though his eyes were closed and his neck started to thrash back and forth. "Call me Dad! I really don't mind."

"No, no, you've got a high fever. You don't know what you're saying," Matthew dissuaded, heart rate multiplying. "Just… please try to calm down! France, please!"

France opened his eyes, met his, and laughed at him. In a slippery move that he was known for, he pulled his hands from the restraint of the younger's and placed them against the sides Matthew's face. "I'd know my son from anyone else! Don't try to tell me you're not him."

The hands were burning, simply on _fire_, but they froze Matthew cold.

Something was really going wrong. At first, he remained solid, his thoughts racing under the cover of his skull; but when France's eyelashes fluttered, and the rest of him went still, Matthew panicked. He called to the doorway, "Someone! Someone, please; _help him_!"

He watched his father very carefully. He was surprised when France roused, as if he'd been sleeping.

He yawned. "Help who?" asked France, suddenly still and placid on the bedding. He looked to Matthew with clear eyes. "Who's in trouble?"

That bout of insanity had lasted less than a minute…

It scared him more than anything else. How could he have gone from mad to normal in… in seconds? Matthew dropped the other's hands, and quickly stumbled backward to the door. He fell against it.

France sat up in his bed, using a singular elbow to support himself. Confusion knitted in his eyebrows, mingled with a dash of concern. "Canada, what… why do you look so frightened?"

Matthew's jaw began to tremble. He pressed his lips together, and yet they still shook. Tense fingertips searched the wall behind him, trying to find something to hold on to, or something to defend himself. But there was nothing. The wall was flat, and the door had mysteriously closed and locked behind him.

Trapped. Trapped. Was he trapped?

He shook his head against his acute paranoia. What was he doing? He was overreacting, and making the situation more intense… only making France more worried…

France gazed at him, blue eyes abruptly clouded in fear.

Blue eyes, ack… he didn't want to think about that.

France was speaking, his voice a low and tender murmur. "…alright, Canada?"

He winced. "What?" He was shaking violently, losing his mind.

"I asked if you were alright," said France, becoming more apprehensive.

He became defensive, and pointed his eyes at him. "Are _you_ alright?" Matthew redirected, his arms flattening against the wall behind him.

France looked at him oddly, sweat shining against his forehead. "Well, I passed out for a while there… but now I'm feeling… as good as I was before… though that's not good at all… mm. Why do you ask?"

Passed out? When had he done that?

He… _oh_.

Oh, well, that was interesting – when France spazzed and spoke so wildly, his conscious had shut down. And presently he couldn't remember.

Matthew didn't want it to happen again. He wouldn't be able to handle it, and he doubted his father could, either. France's body was being disconnected from his mind slowly but surely – he needed to reactivate the connection, and fast:

France's pupils were beginning to dilate.

Matthew moved next to the bed once more, but this time resting on his knees. He moved the hair from France's face, just like France had done to him in his bedroom. He took a calming breath before beginning.

His eyes shone empathy. "France, can you do something for me? It'll help you later, even if it'll really hurt and bother you right now… I'm so sorry for making you do this…"

France stared at him, eyebrows raised inconsistently and a fond smile on his lips. "What are you…?"

"Please?" pleaded Matthew. "Don't ask any questions." He could understand what Gilbert had felt, when he had given the ring to him. Tears that weren't his formed at the edges of his eyes. He bent his head. He grasped his father's hands blindly. "…It'll just make it harder on me."

France was silent, mulling it over; he considered the hands over his. So small, but so perfect… Finally, he couldn't hide the curiosity that was building walls in his mind. He trusted Matthew wholly. "Whatever you'd like, Canada…"

Canada. That name would change soon. Matthew swallowed dryly. "Okay… what I need you to do is lightly tweak my nose and say, 'You got syrup everywhere you could reach, didn't you?'" He demonstrated.

France's eyes went extremely wide; but he laughed, because it was all too odd. "What in the world? Syrup, what is –?"

"I said no questions," interrupted Matthew, a bit more sternly than preferred.

With a downturned smile, France looked a bit nervous as he reached out a hand, and softly passed a finger over Matthew's nose. "You got syrup everywhere you could reach, didn't you?" His voice trembled like a winter wind.

And Matthew began to cry when France's eyes faded over, and he was no longer there.

He was in a memory.

It took only three minutes before France started again, sitting up so suddenly. "_Mathieu_!" he cried. "Oh, _mon fils_! You've grown up so fast!"

Matthew's sobs turned to laughter when his father wrapped his arms around his neck, and held him against his chest.

"That was incredibly strange," France emitted, ruffling his son's hair and not daring to let him go. "I was just thinking about that time when you were three and discovered maple syrup for the first time! You remember that, right?"

His reply was muffled in the other's shirt, against his neck. But he was smiling.

"You poured it all over your cute little hands," he continued, "got it all in your hair, and spread it all over the tables and the chairs… Kumajirou was _soaked_! We had to bathe him for an hour to get it all out, remember? Don't you remember?" Fond chuckles passed his dry lips, and his tone was proud and reminiscing. "Oh, _mon bébé_!

"And the thing was," France concluded, trying to laugh, but losing energy, and getting quieter and quieter with each word, "I don't think you got a drop… on the pancakes…"

Matthew's tears dripped into the carpet as France fell unconscious.


	18. chapter seventeen

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**: (five is evasive and zero needs his priorities straightened)

"Is he going to be okay?"

Matthew shifted, still troubled. "I believe so… They're keeping France under constant watch, in case he wakes up… But I'm thinking that when he wakes up, his fever will spike, then he'll go under again…"

"Just like you."

"Just like me." Matthew added curiously, "But what exactly happened to you?"

Gilbert settled into his seat, yawning. "That's not important right now."

"Eh?"

A smirk. "There you go."

"What?"

"Your 'eh'."

"You're getting off-topic."

"Am I?"

"You are."

Gilbert adverted his gaze, twirling a lengthy piece of hair around his finger, pretending it was Matthew's. "I might just have to send you out to the other two," he dismissed, watching the ceiling.

Matthew knew he wasn't getting answers. So he sighed, conveying his disapproval. Though he tentatively mumbled, "Do I have to?"

"Hey, you really seem to be able to handle this situation all right. You'll really be helping Vash, not to mention Lilly."

"What is this? An organization?"

The proposition sparked interest. "If you'd like it to be… and I can be the awesome ring leader!"

Matthew frowned. "What does that make me?" He might as well go with the rouse...

All at once, the dynamics of the roomed changed. The air around them swirled amongst their heads, spurred when Prussia smirked.

Gilbert possessed a daring gleam in his eye, and leaned across the table. Fingers struck skin, quick, quick, an electrifying touch; Gilbert took the incentive, curling his fingers around a strand of hair. "You're my right-hand man, the one in the spotlight, performing all that's needed while I remain in the shadows… suave. You're the one who also… gets a bit more than he bargains for…" He implied more with actions than words. Lips sought tender flesh, but he ended up kissing a palm. His eyes opened wide, staring at Matthew's purple eyes with half of his face hidden behind the younger's hand. "Mmmm?"

Matthew was cold. "You're having too much fun with this," he mumbled. "This isn't… fair." When he caught red eyes, he clarified, "Our relationship… I don't know what it is anymore." He removed his hand, so that Gilbert's face was before him, undaunted; their breaths mingled playfully in the frigid air of their meeting room.

"Come on, nothing's changed between us," Gilbert begged, his knee on the table. He continued to have fun; "Where's your personality? Where's your warmth?" The answer startled him.

"Gone," he sighed sorrowfully. "I'm sorry… I really don't want it to be like this…" He stared, notions of need and love revolving around in his head. He couldn't suppress it, and gifted him a dry kiss, restraining from anything else. "But shouldn't we be focusing on getting their memories back? And… and saving you?"

Gilbert retreated, moving to lean against the sidewall.

Matthew was near tears.

"My goodness, Birdie. Is that all you're going to focus on now? Me? Saving me? Gosh, I wouldn't have told you my fate if I knew you'd worry yourself sick over it."

"Sick?" Matthew hiccupped. "I'm not sick."

Gilbert was angered. "You have to get your priorities straight, damn it. It's too late for me. We've got to save the station as a whole – isn't that what you want?"

"No," he said. "I just want you… and Francis… safe."

"See, your priorities aren't straight! They're as curved as a freaking circle!"

Matthew groaned and clutched at his head. He buried his face behind his arms. "Francis will get his memories," he reiterated, dropping the subject all together. "How are Vash and Lilly doing? Are they suffering like he is?"

"Probably," Gilbert replied, reluctantly. He ran his hands through his dirty hair and began to pace the room. "Same thing happened to them like what happened to Francis – you told them something, but no evidence… so right now, it's really liable that their body will reject it and they'll treat it like a bad dream, so we've got to act fast, but… I have no memories of important things with Vash or Lilly… How are we going to give them their memories?" He tilted his head, offering Matthew's opinion.

Matthew hadn't a thought either. He simply knew their names, and basic backgrounds. No memories that impacted them…

But he had a sudden idea.

"Put them together," he gasped. "Surely they have shared memories? They're siblings, after all."

Gilbert smirked, all of his previous worries seeming to fall. "Of course. You're a genius."

Matthew smiled, if for a fleeting moment. "Well, that's the plan then. I'm just sure it won't be as easy as it sounds…"

And it wasn't.


	19. chapter eighteen

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**: (the doctor and the nurse's shared memory)

She looked like a fallen angel on that bed.

Golden hair spread around her face like a halo, wings could be seen out of the large white medical gown she was wearing, and her face, oh so vibrant, and yet so tainted, stood out like a smile against it all.

And she _was_ smiling.

"Oh… hello there, mister…" She paused, very thoughtfully, yet looking at him in a mixture of curiosity and fatigue. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if I know your name…"

Yes, she did, Matthew thought, a bit sadly; but he needed to remember that her body was trying its best not to receive memories, thus she was not conscious of his namesake.

He coughed, the three letters m-a-t at the tip of his tongue. He was relieved when he was able to say, "Canada."

She smiled wider, a little more sun on a rainy morning. "Lichtenstein. Nice to meet you."

"Same," he said blandly, trying to get the conversation to end before it began. He wanted to start fluently, but she inadvertently interrupted him.

"Mister, is there something you need?"

She was so kind. So innocent. So bright.

So young.

He couldn't help the pass of distaste that came over his face. "Well, yes, Lichtenstein. I would like to know, do you know anyone by the name of Switzerland?"

"Of course," she replied cheerily. "He's the doctor I work under."

Oh. He had forgotten that slight detail, but he supposed it made everything easier. "Would you like to see him?"

"More than anything," she said in a breath. "But is it safe for me to? I'm not feeling well –" Here she coughed. " – and I wouldn't want to get him sick…"

"He's sick too," he blurted, before he could avoid his own words, "and that's why we need you. We think you might just make him feel better. You'd feel better, then, too."

"Oh, my." Lichtenstein seemed confused over his cryptic tone of voice, and the intensity painted on his face. Something clicked, and she sat up a bit straighter, her ribbon falling lower in her frizzed mass of hair. "If you don't mind me asking… do I know you from somewhere?" She began getting out of bed.

She knew him as the crazed patient that knew their real names, so of course he couldn't let her catch on. "Oh, no, ma'am."

"What a shame," she said delicately, as she pressed her bare feet to the floor. Her ribbon fell even farther in her hair, but she didn't notice it. "You're such pleasant company."

Matthew was sure he wouldn't be for much longer.

As they strolled down the white hallways, he hovered his hand around her elbow, in case she was to feel dizzy. She kept that small little smile on her lips, and it made Matthew feel like he was leading her to her own execution.

What an odd thought.

He found the room. The door was parted a centimeter's distance, and the light was off in the inside.

Was it the right room?

Matthew was pretty sure, so he tapped on the door lightly.

"I'm not here right now," said a very familiar voice from inside, "don't come back later."

Matthew winced, but Lichtenstein brightened even further. "Oh Dr. Switzerland, it's really you!" But she didn't bound through the door like expected. She resorted to roll on her heels, clasping her hands behind her. She must have known better than to approach him suddenly... hm. He wondered, if they knew they were brother and sister, would things be different?

Silence responded, until the same voice cut it, "Lichtenstein, what are you doing?"

"Canada said you were sick," she said, "and he said I could make you feel better."

"He did, did he?"

"Yes! May I come in?"

"Is he with you?"

"Who, Canada?"

"Yes, him."

"He's with me… why?"

And the conversation fell again, no answer given.

Matthew had enough of the guessing games and pushed the door wide open (not demandingly, nor violently, just… _urgently_). A glare furrowed his brows, making him look more threatening than he really felt. "Switzerland, please let Lichtenstein help you. You'll be helping her as well."

He was a mess, against those sheets, such a contradiction to how placid Lichtenstein had looked previously. His eyes were bloodshot, and expressing all signs of paranoia. Sticky locks of hair seemed to be glossed upward, downward, and sideways, defying gravity. He clutched a pink pillow to his chest with one hand, and held another out before him, shaking it. "No, I don't want her seeing me like this!"

"Oh Switzerland, you _are_ sick!" she cried out, forgetting his title, and dashing toward him with amazing grace. She climbed onto the foot of the bed, her knees making valleys in the mattress. She reached out to him, but looked over her shoulder to a still Matthew. "Mister Canada, how can I make him feel better?"

A flush was taking over her face; maybe it was because she was nervous, but Matthew knew the first symptoms of recognition were taking her over. RR was melting...

Still frozen at the realization (it was like a movie before his eyes), he suggested, "Just talk to him…"

She seemed confused, but turned her head back to Switzerland so fast that her ribbon finally floated swiftly to the floor.

Switzerland had regained a sort of calm, and reached down to take the green silk between his fingers. "Here, you dropped this…"

She took on an air of embarrassment. "Oh," she said, but her voice was stolen moments later.

He implored upward, taking a few strands of her unruly hair and threading the ribbon around it. He tied it with an ease that seemed automatic. "There," he said, as his hands fell. "That looks so good on you."

Matthew was bewildered when she said nothing to him. He walked into the room more fully, taking cautious steps, before looking at them from a profile view.

Both of them were unmoving, their eyes glazed over and mouths gaping.

Well, Matthew figured, it had been as easy as it had seemed to get them to remember each other.

The memory, to him, stretched on for solid minutes. But finally they both emerged from the trance, Lichtenstein exploding into tears and Switzerland in a tired frown.

"I thought you were gone forever," she wailed, mopping at her little eyes with even smaller hands.

Switzerland reassured her, "No, see? I'm back with you now…"

Matthew broke the family bond by asking, "What exactly did you experience?"

"Experience? What do you mean?" And then he lost his simple curiosity and snapped, "And what are you doing here?"

Matthew ignored his last inquiry. "Let me rephrase… what memory were you thinking about?" Luckily for them, they didn't need the whole story explained.

Lichtenstein ceased in her cries of joyous reunition, a tiny smile peering up at him. "I was just thinking about when Vash first got me my pretty ribbon," she said.

Switzerland looked at her critically. "As was I… but what happened to it?"

She fingered her hair. "I don't know… this isn't it…"

Matthew was surprised. So it hadn't been the touch of the fabric to remind them? It must have been the words…

Switzerland looked annoyed. "Great, that was two dollars down the drain."

She laughed at him. "But I've still got a ribbon, so you don't need to buy me another one!"

Switzerland considered it. "True…"

Matthew caught onto it then – a sudden flickering of Switzerland's eyes. He opened his lips, but it was too late: all color drained from the doctor's face, and he slumped forward. A broken bag falling off a building... He tried to catch him, but for some reason, Matthew's limbs were paralyzed.

So Lichtenstein screamed. Her first instinct was to push Switzerland away when he fell so heavily toward her, but she didn't want to do that. She suppressed the habit and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She held him so dangerously close. "What happened to him?" she asked Matthew, almost accusingly, if it was possible, through sniffles. "I – I thought you said I'd be making him b – better!"

Matthew hurried and relieved her of the body, urging Switzerland back against his pillows. He tried to distractedly fix the other's sticky hair, not wanting to see Lichtenstein's teary eyes as he replied, "Don't worry, Lichtenstein. When he wakes up, he'll feel sick for a while, but after that he'll be better than ever. You've really helped him. And the same thing should happen –"

He paused, as he looked over and saw her motionless on the floor.

" – to you..."


	20. chapter nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**: (zero loses his cool and five makes a wild dedication)

Prussia had it all planned out, apparently. He verbally connected the dots.

"You're awesome, Birdie." He began, "So listen to this. Vash'll get Roderich's memory back – and it'll be easy, 'cause last time I heard, they were totally crushing on each other – and then Roderich can get Lizzy back, 'cause they were off-and-on lovers and he can get Ludwig back, since they've always been like brothers. It goes on from there! We'll have everyone back in a matter of days!" His fingers, gnarled and discolored from past years of misuse, interlaced with one another. He tapped the pads against the back of his hands to a foreign rhythm. And surprisingly, the touch of his own skin made him uncomfortable. Such maltreatment had been performed with his own digits… they had been the cause of –

There was an interruption, something quiet, something mostly spoken for the benefit of being spoken: "Months."

Prussia stopped in his movements of proudly parading around the room. He stared at the wall in front of him, frozen to the core by the usually honey-sweet voice that suddenly dripped with venom. Suffocated with dread. Was dragged down by misfortune. His heart churned, being used as a chamber to the mixture of his own emotions in his chest. _Always_ in his chest. He turned to the morose figure at the table, trying to seem light and not as affected as he honestly was. "Excuse me?" He nearly laughed the pardon in his attempt of apathy.

"It'll take months," Matthew continued, his tone still dead. He didn't lift his head from its bent position; his neck was throbbing at the very base. "Months. Not days."

Normally, Matthew was optimistic. Why worry over family problems when the weather's so nice?

Gilbert was normally pessimistic. You worry over family problems _because_ the weather's so nice. A storm was always on the horizon.

Memories of Matthew's bright smile drifted into Gilbert's troubled mind. They were distant memories; hadn't merged with reality for a while. He decided to overshadow his lover's words, because he began to realize their positions had switched. He didn't like that. It upsetted the norm. And what he didn't like, he ignored. Though, he could not stop the timidity that tripped his words. It was obvious what he was doing… "Oh, and how can I forget? Francis can get Arthur and Toni…" Prussia pretended to sound contemplative.

Matthew saw through the game, as expected; so he spoke again, lowly, but just as deathly. He sustained with the original dialogue, because that was where his mind was at. "…And we don't have months."

A stiffening wrapped around his shoulders. He stopped his irate pacing. Prussia tried, one additional time, to get Matthew more excited. More lively. To get Matthew to be Matthew.

He hurried over the table, and pressed his palms against it. His eyes were ferocious beasts, red and thirsting for the blood they used to adore, but his voice remained as carefree as he could handle while he stared directly at Matthew. Into Matthew. The eyes reflected seemed to be the cloudy depths of a misty lagoon. Dark, with the rivulets of color you swam so desperately to grasp at. He fought not to grind his teeth, not to physically lash out. "And you know what Arthur can do?" Carefree. Carefree. Light. "He can save your _half-__brother_. Your brother, Matthew."

It was evident that Matthew felt uncomfortable. Didn't like the facts staring at him in the face, because he knew the price they came at. "…Can't… can't save you…" he protested weakly, withheld sobs choking his voice. His lack of sleep was suddenly so prominent under his eyes. They were half-circles supporting the twin sockets in his head, just as dark as his murky pupils.

Prussia felt a sting. No, it was Gilbert who sensed it. It was a guilty sting that made him experience a reappearance of his old friend, self-loathing. But he did not like it, so he ignored it.

Additionally there was a wilting in his mind, as an idea faded. Prussia's intense and loud approach hadn't worked, hadn't gotten the expected response or the desired change in Matthew, so he changed _it_. He stole his stool from under the table and moved it next to his friend. It was as if they were nothing more than beer buddies, both drunk out of their minds. As if nothing they spoke of really mattered, or existed… "Listen, Matthew…" A sigh. A sigh to convey sympathy. "I know this is… hard for you… but just don't focus on me. Please. You can't do that. It'll only bring us trouble in the end."

There was a moment; then he lifted his head, expressionless. Matthew considered him darkly. His eyes held knowledge that became Gilbert's downfall. "Normally you're not so nice. Even to me."

Even by gritting his teeth, he could not stop his tactless comeback as it came rearing its head: "No _dip_. But you can't seem to get it through your thick head that _I'm going to be okay_." There went his façade of a decent and caring human being! But he supposed he never had it in the first place.

His counterpart was silent.

Prussia groaned heavily, pressing the moons of his palms into his eye sockets. Colors began to explode in his vision, beautiful things limited only to him. These were his colors. His hope. He needed to dig into these colors, these brilliant colors illuminating against endless blackness, and find the perfect words to say. Find the words that would set everything right, for once in his life. "Mattie…" The nickname was the first connection. Or, by comparison, the first mistake. "…the day… the day I leave you is the day I die. I'll never –"

His premature monologue was stopped short. Because he had closed his eyes, entrapping himself deep into his conscious, Gilbert had failed to notice how Matthew had begun to crumple. The frontage of his dark appraisal was gone; and there, there next to him… was the fragile, bright-eyed man Gilbert knew. The man Gilbert knew… whose world was threatening to drown him.

Gilbert could recognize that it was his fault; those had definitely not been the right words to say in such a tender moment. Maybe Matthew thought he was trying to be funny, in some disgusting way. That would be horrible.

Wrong choice of words. Gilbert no longer held onto his own head, and, betting that his mind wouldn't explode out of his eyes, piled his hands onto Matthew's quivering shoulder. He could not feel any heat. Nothing physically licked at his hands… there really was no warmth! "No, no, no, what I meant was…" Presently he was under pressure. At times, he worked well under pressure. At other times, he didn't. "…th-that I'll be with you as long as I live!"

Louder cries. Muffled by the arms Matthew had sunken his face into, additionally wrenching himself from the arms that tried to soothe him.

"Um – Um…" If his blatant attempt at reassurance using clichéd metaphors was not working, what had he left? He considered lying. He considered honesty.

He ended up mashing them together.

"I love you, and I won't make you suffer by losing me? I'll… be alive for eternity and we'll live happily ever after?"

Through his tears, Matthew hiccuped, a jerky effort for his body to apologize for its waterworks. He didn't speak for a while. He needed to collect himself. He could see that what Gilbert was saying obviously couldn't turn out as stated… but it made him feel… safe. "That's – that's better, I guess…" He was falling all over again.

Gilbert smiled kindly at him. Rubbed his shoulder. Kissed his hairline. Then it was over. Then he wasn't Gilbert, but an ex-officer who needed to save the destiny of his world. His eyes were duo rubies, set on a greater prize. "So we agree that Arthur's next?"


	21. chapter twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**: (zero's misty mind and five's troubled past)

Covering his face was a very shaky smile, seven days later. Prussia was praising him on his recent success, going on and on. Near rambling. Matthew was deaf to it. There was something slowly descending upon him, making him uneasy and almost sick. He had never favored the unknown.

"As you know, you did such a wonderful job." He clapped his hands together, a lone member of an audience with millions in attendance. "Francis got ol' Artie's memories back, and very timely, too. All he had to mention was that fling they had as teens and _bam_ – " He slammed his fist against the table for audio effect. It just startled Matthew. " – it came back to him! Amazing, Matthew!" Prussia was saying, very vibrantly, hand motions included, oblivious to Matthew's heightening anxiety. "Now, once Arthur recovers, we can get back –"

There. There it was – right at the tip of his brain. It was a bright thing, he could reach it… "Stop," Matthew said suddenly, croaking, his eyes lighting as he tried to metaphorically put a hand out. He needed it… what was it… "Stop, I…"

Prussia was not amused. His first instinct was that Matthew was going to begin his cryptic psychobabble again. He did not feel like putting up with it. "What?" Though there was also a bit of concern…

"It… it doesn't make sense…" What didn't make sense? He didn't even know. Matthew's eyes flickered, scouring his memory for that moment of confusion to relate to…

Prussia displayed incredulity. He threw his hands up. "What does?" He pleaded, "Matthew, _you're_ going to have to start making sense if you want me to –"

He held the missing shard. Wrapped his fingers around it. Held it close. Bled. "The meeting," he said harshly, his voice rough paper, articulating the nameless thoughts pounding around in his head.

But even though Matthew had reached a moment of clarity, Prussia's perplexity only increased. "What meeting? Matthew, are you sure you're not –"

"They said – they said you were gone at the Veteran B meeting." Matthew was soft, as light as he used to be. As curious as he used to be. He asked, "Why was that? Why did they tell us you were gone, when you're still here?"

Reality fell heavily on Prussia with the words; his shoulders sagged, and he lost a spectrum of excitement. He seemed fatigued. As if he'd been withholding something for far too long. "Well, you were bound to ask," he mumbled, passing a tired hand over his face. He was silent for quite a while, mulling things over in his mind, and continuing to pace around their small room. Finally he managed to settle into his stool. "What – what exactly did they tell you?" He sounded as if every word he spoke had to pass through a matted carpet in his throat to break air. Thick and woolly. He seemed weighted.

"It was Ludwig, actually," he explained, meekly. He disliked the pain dancing alternatively through Gilbert's eyes. "He… he said…" He searched the confines of his unfamiliar memory, trying to conjure up the exact words. "I think it was: 'One of our members had to be let go'. That's all he said over you, I think. He never… he never even said that it was you! I was just able to figure it out… No one else did… I wonder –"

"Nothing else?" Harsh. Harsher than before. Sparing unnecessary ache.

"No." Matthew shook his head. "At least, there's nothing else I can remember." Slowly, he considered, "Is there more I need to be aware of?"

In turn, Gilbert winced, twirling his thumbs around one another. Then he stopped. All at once. "It's all… very, very complicated…"

"I think I'll be able to handle it," he confessed with a conflicting undertone; his whole actuality had recently been tossed into a figurative garbage shoot; reduced to mere _fiction_. What could be worse?

"Um – my memories didn't come to me as it did to you and everyone else, as it seems," Gilbert allowed quietly, beginning to clench his hands. Coaxing blood flow. "When Gilbird caught up to me and gave me the ring, everything came to me at once. And it hurt a whole damn lot. I kind of went insane 'cause of it… you'd understand."

Was he really able to understand? Matthew didn't voice his wonders, simply staring at him with concerned eyes.

"So there was an A meeting later in the day I got the ring, unfortunately. And I kinda… heh, I kinda snapped, because I had no idea what was going on in my head, and I wanted to make everyone else comprehend…" He broke off, and then he shuddered. Past events were gripping him hard, along with dusty emotions. Guilt. Regret. Broken naivety. Soiled innocence. "Um, I tried to get them to remember, too, the A section, though not as… _eloquently_ as you had." He laughed at himself. Laughed at how foolish he had been; though he couldn't honestly be to blame. "Basically I just spoke nonsense!" It was an adequate description from anyone else's eyes. "And I really got Luddy mad. I… told him things… and I spilled things…" He stopped, not really wanting to say what he'd spilled. He stroked his hair, back and forth, back and forth.

Matthew paused, trying to spare Gilbert the additional pain by figuring it out himself. But the only option he thought of… was basically… horrifying. But as Gilbert's face contorted with shy admission, he gasped, "Oh, no; you didn't! You – you told him about his relationship with –?"

He groaned sadly. "I did, I did! I feel really bad for it now, though. I think I scared Feli into the next millennium; he went blank-eyed on me. More blank-eyed then he does when you try to tell him about statistics and junk."

Matthew winced, as if he was reliving it himself. "Oh, gosh, that's horrible. How'd he take it?"

He sputtered, "Pfft! Not with a spoonful of sugar. Luddy literally kicked my ass outta there, red as a rose, telling me that he wouldn't let me back in his sight until I 'get my head straight'. So I ran around for a while, fuming. So I wasn't really gone. I was just… given an early vacation, I'll say, even though I guess they implied that I should leave. But, anyway, I walked around and… and that's when…" He reconsidered. "That – that was actually when I saw you for the first time since… well, you know."

Memories of that meeting in the leisure room flooded back at him, and Matthew flushed with discomfort. "I've meant to ask… why were you so mean to me then if you… knew it was me? If that makes sense," he implored.

Prussia was hesitant, shifting in his seat constantly for a few seconds. "That's… that's the odd thing, though. I… I knew that I _knew_ you, but I couldn't figure out… how or why. That bothered me. Really bad. So I snapped again."

"Do you remember what you said?" Matthew requested quietly, torn between finding it all as entertainment or melancholy. "You thought I was –"

"Yes, yes. But I realize now that I kind of was seeing you there… watching you there… as a memory… and I…" As he incoherently mumbled more phrases, the more illiterate he became, the more increasingly apprehensive.

Matthew took hold of his frustration, wrangled it up and submitted it into easily digestible sections. "Explain from the beginning," he urged, though he was sure it would confuse him all the more. If that was possible.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes at him, not liking the demand, but only let go a sigh. "Around the time Arthur and Francis had their fling, I had had one too… with Lizzy."

Lizzy, Lizzy, who? He had to think for a moment, but brunette hair and flowing dresses interrupted his conscious suddenly and he understood. "Oh." She had always been so pretty, but one of the boys.

"The thing was; I really liked her. This was all before I meet you, of course," he made sure to say with a charming smile. "So, when she broke it off with me… I was uncharacteristically depressed, and I remember cowering on my couch for so long like you had been. (Though I understand now that you were just reading, sorry.) And my mind was telling me to stop being such a wimp at the time… so that's why I yelled at you.

"I was just… I just had my memories all mixed up. Since I couldn't remember you, I put something else in your place. I saw you as my teenage self, and I played the role of my conscious, telling me to man the hell up." He paused and inquired, "Forgive me?"

"I guess I can," he allowed. Though the whole situation still sat sourly on his mind. "But do you have a name for that?" He didn't know from where the question stemmed.

"For what?"

"Putting something else in someone's place because you can't remember them."

"…No, I don't. Should I have?"

"No, no… I was just curious."

They were silent, and they tried to recall exactly what was they'd been talking about. It took a while.

"Anyway," Prussia exclaimed, shaking his head to rid of any interfering emotion. "Arthur can get back Alfred's memory… and Alfred knows Toris… wow!" A childish stimulation stretched a grin over his pale lips. "This'll be done faster than I thought!"


	22. chapter twentyone

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**: (five reassures zero's trust)

Prussia smiled disarmingly, as if everything was how it used to be. He had smiled to Matthew like that decades ago. When they first met. To secure Matthew to a first date. "There won't even be much personal work for you to do anymore… you'll just have to put people together, and _bada bing bada bing_!" He clapped his hands to accentuate every noise.

Reluctantly, Matthew realized that something was still clinging onto his mind. Something important, something just as dire… This time, when he looked for it in his head, it was as if he was swimming in darkness and there wasn't even a light for him to chase. It didn't seem to be something he'd consciously realized. But it was obvious that he needed to, and soon.

"There are many ways we can go about it, too," Prussia babbled. "Everyone really connects to one another, everyone…"

Matthew faded off. Couldn't hear Prussia. Only heard the swashing of blood behind his ears; but the words ruthlessly drifted in and mixed amongst his other thoughts, uninvited guests: _connect, connect, connect…_

He got it, all of a sudden; Matthew broke the surface of the inky lake in his head and found a silver fruit dangling over his hands. He gripped it, and it _was_ so important.

"Ah…" Matthew interrupted, bringing his shoulders to a more upright position. Possibly it made him look more sophisticated; look like the words he was about to say weren't just born seconds ago. He was in reality now. Not lost in his mind. He didn't recognize how annoyed Gilbert looked over the reoccurring interruptions. "But I'm worried. I don't think…" Where was it? Where was his silver fruit? Why couldn't he articulate…? "I don't think our brothers will react so well to getting their memories as everyone else has…"

He lost his displeasure at being stopped mid-monologue. The sentiment brought up was interesting. Not something he'd pondered. "Hmm... How do you figure?"

Matthew glanced at him, fleetingly, for a shot of strength, before he cleared his throat and stared at the table. Traced lines that weren't really there. "I mean, _they_ were the ones to get their memories wiped first. And remember how they didn't disappear like everyone else had? Like, when Francis got his memory cleared he completely disappeared. They never did, at least, not that I can remember."

Gilbert knew a lot more. His eyes were fogged globes of glass with rose centerpieces. "Francis was probably transported here…" This made sense to him. "And Luddy and Alfred probably were transported at the same time we were, since we were the last ones to be enlisted…" He was not trying to convey information to Matthew. It was not Matthew's problem. He was just trying to piece it together in his own mind, for his own benefit.

"Oh," he emitted, an acknowledgment of the words being heard and processed, even though he ceased to produce the meaning. Though he continued, "But Ludwig and Al remained after so long, even though they had no memory left…" Similarly to Gilbert, he figured out something that only proved to be an additional piece of his internal puzzle: "They… they stayed back to recruit everyone else, I guess." But he stopped there. What a horrible thought. Suspended into a dying society just so that you could hasten its downfall… That sure went against Alfred's heroic backdrop…

Matthew went on to say, with his voice mollified and his eyes hopping from crevice to crevice on a crease-less surface, "So if they got their memories back now… wouldn't the RR be really intense? Would they be able to survive?" Quickly, quickly he spoke. Increasingly so. "Or would they just not get them back?" Wild questions came like a hot breeze from between his lips. "Or they could even try to… wipe our memories again?" His heart stalled at the mention. "That would be so tragic… Or they could band together as a duo, fight like they did before or… wait; that doesn't make sense. I'm –"

"Nothing you're saying is making sense, sweetie," Gilbert suddenly cooed, no longer the stoic ex-officer. He no longer was a power above; he was a friend beside. More than a friend. (He had shifted because the panic that had enveloped Matthew's tone hurt him. Badly.) He was smooth and sprayed his long, spidery hands over Matthew's face. His fingertips curled around a few frizzed locks of blond, rubbing them carefully. He leaned over the table, his face coming near to his and their breaths becoming one. Laughter, though nothing was funny, was underneath his words: "Calm down. Obviously you're worrying too much. Can I suggest something?" He chuckled lowly, laughing wholly. "Let's introduce Vash to Roddy. When Roddy recovers, show 'im to Luddy at the same time we introduce Arthur to Alfred. Then we can watch both Alfred and Luddy _as they remember everything justly_. Okay, hon? Does that make you feel better?"

Such kind touches. They were unfamiliar at that moment, until they morphed into something he knew intimately. They took all of his worries and drunk them out of him, painless- and effortlessly. He was nothing but a warm cocoon when Gilbert touched him. He could sit like that… forever. He closed his eyes, and, believe it or not, a smile was poking the outlines of his mouth. Soft and coaching. Matthew submitted into it all, into all of the sensations, and covered Gilbert's hands in his own. So he was doubly protected. "…F… Fine…"

The feathery tone used in his admission was so different from the spastic speech Matthew had adhered to moments before. It made Gilbert giddy, that he still had an effect on Matthew after so long. The coldness displayed earlier… was melting. Melting like ice cream between sticky fingers. Soft. Gilbert grinned, trying so hard not to laugh; he needed to continue with it, while it was working in his favor. He said the following, like an ultimatum: "Nothing'll go wrong. _Trust_ me." Because trust was always a factor to their relationship.

Matthew was putty. Oh, what a sensation! "I… I trust you. Oh God, I trust you…"


	23. chapter twentytwo

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**: (magic words and zero's familiar bond)

They played it out according to plan – from the first point, tiny little threads spewed out, connecting everyone together.

Vash got Roderich's memory back, if grudgingly.

(When they had been little, they both enjoyed having fake fights with one another, including the cardboard crayon-colored swords. Both swords were red, only differentiated by Vash's insistence of having little white plus signs on his. But Roderich had had the tendency to get a bit… over-the-top. He'd often fall, messing up his knees and elbows – and his nose, once. He'd simply become weary then, and Vash would carry him home, complaining about what a burden he was being. At the end of the day, Roderich would always mumble against his friend's shoulder, "_You've won this round, but I'll get you yet!_")

Roderich, in turn, relieved Ludwig of his ignorance.

(Once, Roderich had tried to teach Ludwig the art of piano at a young age, though Roderich was still a child himself. But Ludwig didn't like the music. So, with his innocence, when Roderich would get so entrapped in his own notes, Ludwig would scurry into the closet to bring out a lot of toy soldiers. He would put them in trucks and stomp around the room, shouting some sort of war anthem. "_Fear me, I am the strongest_," Ludwig would screech, as he parodied shooting down a bird in the window.)

Simultaneously, Arthur easily brought Alfred into the present.

(Arthur was Alfred's father. It was simple. Arthur, ever depressive, simply reminded Alfred of his twelfth birthday – the one Arthur had been caught up in traffic and missed. He hadn't arrived home until it was half-past-ten, hours after Alfred was supposed to be asleep. But Alfred hadn't been asleep – he'd been sniffing, miserably, in front of an unlit ice-cream-cake he'd pulled from the freezer. It was spilling over the table, and it had drifted to the floor. Instead of it saying, 'Happy Twelfth, Alfred!' it was a tangled string of red icing. Arthur, feeling so incredibly guilty, walked to him and simply stared. Alfred had slurred tiredly, "_Daddy, Daddy, see, now it_ _looks like the stripes on the American flag, it's so messy…_")

Presently, seconds trickled by like a thin stream of water with a constant sound to accompany every one that passed. Matthew sat, swinging his legs beneath his chair and the clock above him. His fingers mangled against one another in his palms; he was nervous, and it took all he had not to start hyperventilating. His chair was at the back wall, and on both of his sides were identical beds.

But the beds' occupants were anything but identical.

On his left, Ludwig was out cold. He looked tousled at most. His hands were folded nicely over his chest, and the blanket rested flatly against his waist, unscrambled and calm. Every breath was even and deep, flowing like music from him. It was reassuring, Matthew figured.

To his right was a different story. Passed out but fretful, Matthew's half-brother was lying. One knee was bent over the side of the bed, hanging fruitlessly. The opposite arm was upside-down, falling off the other side. The blanket was tight under his arms, and crumpled around his legs so much that it didn't reach his feet. Across his face, tiny wrinkles of displeasure kept erupting like earthquakes. Sweat was against his skin, shining. His hair had never been more off-center, and at times he stopped breathing, only to start again in sharp, groaning gasps.

It was worrying, and the cause of Matthew's near-hyperventilation.

They were showing different symptoms. Ludwig was serene, Alfred was a disaster. He had cause to think that that meant Alfred was having trouble, and Ludwig was going to be fine…

But he couldn't be sure.

Because he had been so nervous earlier, Prussia had told him it would be best for Matthew to watch over their siblings until they woke up. Matthew said it was only because Prussia was uneasy over his brother – but Prussia had denied it.

Matthew still thought it was true.

He kept looking at Alfred more than he did to Ludwig; maybe it was because Ludwig was barely moving, and Alfred was spastic, but he knew the real reason was because he was finally accepting Alfred as his… brother.

He had used it so flawlessly before, but it finally began to stick.

Like syrup…

Mindlessly, he took one of his shaking fingers and put it against his tongue – if he thought hard enough, he could recreate the maple taste in his mouth. Remember moments at home, with his own father. He closed his eyes…

…and another pair opened next to him with a yell.


	24. chapter twentythree

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**: (four's awakening)

Matthew started at the horrific sound. His teeth entrapped his finger and his tongue, but the pain was overshadowed by the shouts beside him. He could just feel the terror seeping from the noise and into his blood. It was as if it was his own emotions being played. He turned his head, quickly, to the right. There was thrashing, wild thrashing. But it was different than before – there was still the screaming. "Alfred?" he cried, almost in disbelief.

The name slipped like ice.

At first, only thick and quick panting resounded to him; it seemed as if the breaths were trying to mingle into words. But they were unsuccessful. After a while of breathing, there was a high scream and then words: "M-Mattie," America shouted, arching against the bed in fear. Tears mixed with the sweat on his face. "Help me!" The voice was mangled and twisted, as if it hadn't been used; or as if it was trying to be something it wasn't. But it was Alfred.

Alfred.

In a sudden burst of speed, Matthew was up and leaning over his brother's bed. Tears threatened his eyes, but he refused them. He was too perplexed to tell if he should be crying. "Alfred, what's going on?" he pleaded, trying to meet the other's eyes. It was a futile attempt, since Alfred was thrashing and rolling. But finally, they clicked together – but they weren't Alfred's eyes. They weren't sky-blue. They weren't carefree and passionate. They were dark, midnight blue, dark piles of coal. They roared at Matthew, because they couldn't tell what he was.

America didn't seem to know what reality was: was it the forms before him, or the figures in his head? The two interlaced. To defend himself, his hands began to scratch and claw at whatever they could find.

Matthew was one of them.

The sharp and thin slicing of skin alerted Matthew, and he pressed his fingers to the blood on his cheek, amazed that his brother could do such a thing. To him. Even in a panic… Whatever was plaguing Alfred's mind must be atrocious. He took a grip on the situation, by grasping his brother's thin, boney wrists and pressing them back into the mattress. He lent over his brother, who looked lost, and implored, "Alfred, calm down! I-I… I don't know what's wrong!"

America – no, Alfred – thrashed underneath him. In his disorderly state, his strength was weakened; a relief, because Matthew had always been physically inferior. Alfred gaped his mouth, over and over, struggling to breath; then it came back to him, and he was capable of explaining: "My skin's on fire. I can't get out!" He stopped fighting; he just began to shake, shuddering and convulsing against the sheets. The sheets were moist and stuck to his form. "P-Please, let me out! Let me out, I'll do anything!" There was a gem hidden behind the coal in Alfred's eyes, just shining to get out. Colors slammed against one another in his irises; they were dark with new-incoming speckles of light.

But that didn't seem to be a good sign.

The following was Matthew's first thought: "What? Where do you need to go?" The sentiment seemed to reawaken Alfred; he started moving haphazardly. Battering his head about. Trying to find something else. Matthew tried his best to keep his brother still, but as his movements began to get wilder, he was whipped about as well.

"No where, no where," Alfred screeched, his eyes near bounding from his skull. His chest heaved upwards, bones in his shoulders cracking sickeningly. There didn't seem to be a shred of sanity in his head. He pleaded, "I – I just need to _get out_! Please, please! Don't make me stay here!" The last note was drawn out; it ended with a cry. And with that, he fell heavily against the sheets, his neck to the side. Listless. Broken. Eyelids were drawn over his orbs, protecting them from the evils he believed to be surrounding him.

Matthew's lips fell into a wide gap, his jaw slack. His whole body quavered with the force of keeping his anguish inside. Self-conscious, he dropped his brother's arms; he was terrified when they dropped emptily. There was no movement to correct them. Dead.

Dead.

That was the only thought in Matthew's head.

His dear brother was dead, before they could ever meet.

After long moments of horrific silence, in which he ceased to breath, and released floods of emotion down his face, he murmured, "Alfred?" With only one word, his voice cracked. His throat was so dry.

Nothing. Nothing happened. Matthew waited for the lips to open wider, and exclaim something irrelevant.

_Do you want to get a burger? _

_Gosh, it's stuffy in here. _

_Hey Matt, got a girlfriend yet?_

But there was nothing.

"A… Alfred?" Timidly. His voice was timid. It didn't want to approach a looming disaster; would rather remain naïve.

Matthew bent over, closer. His knees pressed into the tile, more like they slammed into it; he was to shaky to control his motions adequately. He lent, carefully, over his brother's face; turned his head, trying to feel, feel anything…

Hot, husky breaths swirled against his skin. They were sporadic, but they were there.

The relief Matthew felt overwhelmed him; he choked a sob, because it was all so bittersweet.

His brother was still alive, but hurting.

Burning from the inside.


	25. chapter twentyfour

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**: (zero's chair and four goes insane)

There was a slick feeling entrapping his whole body. It made every scant move he made shaky and swollen. He felt as if every limb, every curve of his skin, was inflated with his fear; maybe the extreme beating of his heartbeat, against the brittle cage in his chest, was pumping too much blood throughout and possibly he couldn't handle it. He'd simply explode, within seconds. He felt it, deep within his bones.

But exploding wouldn't help anything, would it?

Matthew shook his head. That was a mistake. While blood was filling the rest of him, none seemed to be in his skull. His brain was without energy, empty and buoyant in the cave of his head, ensuring a slew of colors to the front of his eyes. Purples played with pinks in discolored marbles before he lost himself.

Matthew toppled backward, hitting something… something. There was no pain, though he was sure whatever injury subtly inflected he just couldn't feel. He was still quivering from his encounter with his brother, too fresh after a near-death experience; so it took him longer than normal to twist the base of his neck, to see exactly what he was resting against.

A bed behind him.

The linoleum was very cold against his palms, as he used his hands as anchors to stand back up. It was Germany's bed, just sitting there… as if nothing had happened. Peaceful. Quiet. Ludwig hadn't changed a bit, either. Every strand of his hair was still perfectly in place. Eyes were still closed, held off against the reality.

Matthew first felt envious, but then he began to worry.

Was that helpful? At all? That Germany hadn't changed, be it better or worse? Shouldn't he be... reacting, soon?

He scratched at his head, specifically at the roots of his hair. Both of his hands were occupied with the impulsive soothing of his scalp. Slowly, ease was coming toward him. He welcomed it with a timid smile, because honestly, he knew it wouldn't last for long. In a idyllic moment of steady coordination, he turned his body to the side and saw his chair sitting there. It was forlorn, and a reminder of the innocent hope and faith he had felt, waiting for his impromptu 'patients' to get better... Like he was their doctor, ever caring…

The chair was slightly off holster, presently diagonal instead of straight because of the way Matthew had pushed it aside in his fright. In his anguish. In the moment he was sure his whole _world_ was collapsing.

There it was again, that slippery encasing of discomfort, the aftereffects of doom. He was suddenly dizzy beyond comparison. He fell into that chair, his memento of hours past, and clung to the edges of it like he was to his diminishing sanity.

Matthew, sitting in his chair backward but not caring in the least, held to the back of it. Gripped it intensely. Pressed his forehead to his knuckles, huffing as he tried not to burst into tears. The only noise in his head was the repeating cadence of Alfred's labored breathing; at times, even his mind would torture him by having it falsely come short. He would open his eyes, to check on Alfred. And he'd see Alfred fitful, but still breathing. Then he'd curse his masochistic tendencies and shut off his eyes again.

Fantasies began to fill him; fantasies, because they were nothing more. He wanted to run to Gilbert. Rid of the alter-egos known as Canada and Prussia. Just be _them_ again. Not officers. Not anyone else. Never forced to _be_ anyone else. Love like they used to love, before military precision and Terrors.

And have Alfred be alright. Have him be annoying again; please.

The world was a loitering sentiment all around him. Just surrounding him. He wanted to yell for everything come to a halt, let everything spin around slowly until it completely ceased – he couldn't handle it, not anymore; not when his own flesh and blood complained that he was… _burning_. And not when Matthew could do absolutely _nothing_ to stop it.

Tears were real; dried diamonds and tracks of their traveling on his face. He hadn't known he was crying. He turned around, sitting like a normal person would, and mopped at his face.

What was he doing? He couldn't indulge in wishes, in dreams. That would make him fall harder into the despair reality had prepared for him. He had to accept it for what it was. Make the best of it.

He had to stay strong, to stay strong, to stay –

There was a wet noise, of two mounds of flesh tenderly separating. "…Who are you…?" Light and resembling the flight of a feather, the voice severed the air.

Matthew inadvertently jumped, his heart leaping to punch the soft insides of his neck. Instantly, he was ashamed; the voice couldn't have been calmer. Couldn't have been more lightly inquisitive. He needed to get a grip. It would be disaster if the smallest things broke him.

Matthew constricted the muscles in his throat and dispelled downward, ridding it of the overpowering authority of his heartbeat, as it stuttered up his windpipe; and he swallowed nothing. So dry. But to the voice, because it had reached out to him, specifically to him, he couldn't leave it hanging, he responded with a weak, "Lu –" Correction. "Germany?"

He sounded like the crack of a whip.

As the other moved around, he incessantly ran his tongue over the expanse of his mouth, dampening it. The outcome was unsatisfactory.

Drowsily, the form on the bed shifted until he was resting on a single elbow, oriented toward Matthew and his chair. The results of a broken fever soaked his face and neck, shiny and sodden. Though the locks of hair were fine, and in place, they seemed awfully frizzed. Unbrushed. The eyes were topaz extracts, narrowed but glowing despite not being whole. "Who are you, officer?" he reiterated, more clearly after eradicating his throat of waste. "Why are you referring to me so informally?"

The person speaking to Matthew was very familiar. Painfully so. Matthew remained stationary, stoic, for a few moments as he thought about it.

He had often had to drop a drunken Gilbert off at Germany's... well, no, _Ludwig's_ doorstep. Matthew would apologize for not watching him carefully enough. But Ludwig always, always would take his brother under one arm and use the other hand to ruffle Matthew's hair. He'd say, _'It's not your responsibility to watch after him. He should know better by now.'_

And Matthew would grin and nod at him, though he never agreed. He had never felt a lack of liability for Gilbert. Ludwig constantly had it on his shoulders. Couldn't they share? Matthew used to have a joke, going in his head, that himself and Ludwig were, and would forever be, fighting for Gilbert's custody.

Presently he wondered who won.

Thinking it over, Matthew couldn't see how it was funny. Couldn't find a punch line to the so-called joke. Still as morose, he gave his old 'rival' the following response: "I am Canada, Officer Germany." He spoke properly, and refused to answer the second question.

At all.

Because they shouldn't be using formalities. Germany used to call him Matthew. Which wouldn't seem odd at the time, as it was his name, but now it seemed his real name was, in fact, Officer Canada.

And that just _didn't_ roll off the tongue.

Matthew tried to mollify his expression, and look a bit more pleasant; after all, he was the first face Germany was to see upon waking. "Do you know where you are?" he questioned lightly, when Germany was looking around, looking confused and lost. A proverbial mixture, indeed. One was never far without the other…

Germany concluded his appraisal of the scenery. "Yes," he finally decided. His voice had resorted to its normal monotone.

It reminded Matthew of the meeting. Of the speech given, closing Prussia's existence.

They had thought Prussia had gone! Was rid of them, forever! Which was absolutely true. But it had just given way to Gilbert. Brought back the old, out with the new.

Matthew wondered when he'd stop being Canada.

When he was silent, Germany followed up with, "I'm in the station, of course. Where else would I be?" It was a lame attempt at humor. Where else would he be? They only knew the station. It was sad, really. He chuckled as he said the last syllables, trying to lighten Matthew up. But it accomplished nothing.

Matthew couldn't even smile to spite him.

Germany appeared to be uncomfortable. His pale eyebrows kissed at the bottom of his forehead, enticing wrinkles to join them in the lovemaking. "Is something wrong?" Germany asked. His head tilted, as he assessed. "You look… scared."

That was the wrong image display; Matthew shook off whatever was on his face, trying to seem appeasable. Neutral, at least. "I – um." He wasn't fluent at articulating words. Not just yet.

For some reason, he glanced, over his shoulder, at his brother. Alfred was immobile. He could pretend that whole encounter hadn't occurred in the first place.

Oh, eloquent, beautiful bliss…

Matthew released a sigh, a slow drag of his breath against the wire of his teeth. But then he felt twin lasers of concern against his temple. He had the sensation that he was going to be shot, being hunted down, so he quickly turned around.

It was just Germany.

Matthew murmured, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling fine. …So why am I in the infirmary, then? It's only for the sick, like that poor officer over there." Germany raised a thin finger to indicate Alfred.

Matthew wished Germany hadn't done that… He tensed, pulling his shoulder blades together. He appeared to be stretching, but really, he was just making sure he wouldn't cry out against the nightmare playing, once more, in the dark confines of his head. By simply mentioning his sibling's name brought back Alfred's struggle in hell.

While Matthew sat, unnoticeably horrified, Germany ripped the blankets from his muscular form. He dangled his legs over the bed. They looked like tree trunks, swinging aimlessly in a gravity deprived wasteland. Heavy, and yet weightless. Germany ran a hand over the back of his neck, smoothing small hairs, still awaiting a response of Matthew's.

Matthew wondered why he was so slow. So lethargic. "You – you passed out," he half-lied, that being the excuse he had planned from the beginning. "So you were brought here to reside until you awoken, Officer Germany."

Officer Germany.

Officer... Germany!

Suddenly he realized that something was very, very odd. Something was very, very wrong. His eyes intensified, the very edges of his pupils crawling in violet. What a dastardly misfortune he had discovered...

(His worrying over his brother, and fading mental health, had delayed its uncovering.)

Shouldn't Germany _remember_ now? Have his memories from their previous life?

Sure, it could be that he just hadn't remembered Matthew yet (no surprise) but… He just seemed off. As if... As if... no. That couldn't have happened.

Matthew raised the incline of his head, to stare at him.

Germany contracted the muscles in his lips, revealing rows of teeth that were clenched. A grimace, a scowl, of personal regret. "How unfortunate. I haven't been feeling ill recently, so I do not know why I would have passed out... Hopefully I wasn't in public?" That seemed to be his only concern.

Matthew had to allow him one less predicament. The whole situation was troubling enough. "No… you weren't."

"Good," Germany said, in a breath. He collected the edges of his shirt in his hands, pulled them tighter to the center of his upper body. Straightened buttons, orchestrated his fingers through his hair, and attempted to wipe the sweat from his face. It just left him in a dirty shine. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Germany stood up, and bent to flatten his slacks. When he erected himself, and tried to move forward, there was an obstacle, suddenly in his way. It hadn't been there before. He blinked, wondering if it'd just go away.

It didn't.

"What… What are you doing, Officer...?"

He couldn't even remember Matthew's name.

Not even his fake, fake name.

Matthew had his hands pressed to the front of Germany, as if his presence alone wasn't enough to stop him. How careless. How fast had he been up from his chair, to the very spot he was in? He needed more control over his actions… It could indicate future disaster… Matthew shuddered, hoping a premonition wasn't occurring, and then the feeling passed.

"Um – are you really sure you're okay?" He talked, as a desperate way to urge to the inevitable… But Germany wasn't responding adequately. So Matthew bluntly tried: "Do you… do you have anything you'd like to say?"

The reply was uniform. Military-issued. "What an odd question. But no, I really have nothing to tell you at this time."

Well. It wasn't as blunt as he thought, then.

Matthew could read the innocence in Germany's eyes. That... no. His worst nightmare had come true. For some reason, the RR had taken Germany over. Had won.

They had failed him.

They had failed Ludwig.

He was gone.

Forever.

Tears were at the very brink of his eyes. He clutched at Germany's shirt. Simply clung. Please, don't be gone… So his inkling of belief spoke for him; the words flowed by themselves. "N-Nothing to say? Nothing about p-pianos? Or toy s-soldiers?"

Germany went blank. The light behind his eyes faded into nothing. The nerves in his face dropped, letting all expression go.

And Matthew removed his palms.

Because he didn't know what he was touching.

Matthew just observed, as Germany watched something he couldn't see… something, something…

Until everything broke.

A sudden tension came over Germany's face, pulling his skin tight against his skull. A deadly glower ripped him open. His veins began to protrude in his neck, and Matthew could see the blood boiling. Boiling hot.

"Oh, this isn't good," someone sorrowfully cried, long and drawn-out.

Matthew's hair stood on end.

When had Alfred woken up?

"Oh, oh, this isn't good! Germany, Germany, _Germany_!" The voice arched. It swayed with emotion. Desperation. Alfred's head battered from side to side, whipping the pillow; with his back to him, Matthew could tell as much by the audible _swish_ of his hair. Alfred's hair had always been a very physical part of him… "You don't know what you're _doing_!"

"You've always been so _troublesome_," Germany spat, his voice no longer its soft, compliant monotone, but a monstrous growl. The beast had been awakened from within. And it roared at Alfred, over Matthew's head.

_This_ was Ludwig.

But Matthew knew better.

This… _couldn't_ be Ludwig.

Common sense proved otherwise; that _had_ to be Ludwig. There had been some personality modification, perhaps.

Matthew felt ill at the thought. "Oh, God."

"Why can't you just understand that they've _helped_ us?" Ludwig continued to Alfred. "They've _helped_ us! And now…" Ludwig's stormy eyes were now covering Matthew's skin like tin foil. Cracking him open, sizzling… "And now _you're_ trying to change everything!" he redirected to him.

Matthew put his hands up high, really, he was innocent; his heart panicked, causing his words to turn to mush. "I – I – no, I honestly –"

"It's _not_ your fault, Mattie," Alfred cried, still residing on the mattress behind Matthew. He didn't seem to be able to move... "Tell him who did this! Tell him who did this to you!"

Matthew was seeing those colors again, getting dizzy… This time, purple seemed to be strangling the life from all the pinks, all the blues… all the blues…

Ludwig grew hot with anger, over the simple suggestion, over the proposition Alfred had laid: "What? Someone _else_ is involved?"

Ludwig used his large hands and throbbing muscles framed with fury to grip Matthew around the collar. He lifted him from the ground, as if Matthew was nothing but trash. A worthless, weak little thing. He spat in his face; "Who? Tell me who!" The eyes of his wrestled with Matthew's. Eventually, they would be victorious.

Matthew was shaken by Ludwig, like a disobedient rag doll. His neck turned to rubber. He wasn't able to decide what exactly they needed from him… What was Alfred implying? Who else was involved? What were they even involved with? And why was Ludwig so outraged? So many options sped through his mind. He blubbered words he couldn't understand.

Ludwig, with a massive scowl, greater than those before, dropped him. Just dropped him, to the ground. Matthew actually fell onto his back, but his head saved from trauma; still, the psychological impact… affected him forever.

"You'll have to tell me sooner or later," Ludwig growled, his eyes firmly locking onto Matthew's. He took one of Matthew's wrists, bending it painfully for just a second before he plucked him from the floor.

Using his beastly voice, Ludwig demanded, "Move."

One little word. But it was overflowing with threat. Spilling immediate action.

Matthew moved.

"Mattie, no! Aw, man!" This was Alfred. Bartering, begging for his brother's life, but incapable of movement. Alfred's body was heavily leaden, paralyzed, disconnected from his mind. It was only a temporary condition, but with unfortunate timing. He could only watch as Ludwig led Matthew to the doorway.

In Alfred's mind, his little brother was being kidnapped.

"Give him back, Germany; give him _back_!" Alfred screamed, a tortured soul, from the bed. Shouted as loud as he could. Nearly shattered his lungs, almost permanently burned his throat. "No, Mattie!" he cried in final anguish; "You can't leave me like this! Don't leave me! Why are you doing this to me?"

Why was _he_ doing this to _him_?

Alfred couldn't be serious! After everything Matthew had done; Alfred didn't even _know_ the extent of it. Matthew touched his fingertips to the scratch on his cheek; the one Alfred had given him. The cut was dry, scarring over, increasingly by the second. He felt betrayed. Alfred was the traitor. Alfred…

And yet, Matthew couldn't bring himself to be incensed. Because all he felt was happiness that Alfred was okay; concern over whether or not this was a sign he was getting better, finally; and need, because he really needed to see him. Console him, physically.

But he couldn't. And the swirling mass of emotion in Matthew's head caused his body's defenses to respond adequately. His vision swam. His extremities felt light.

Then, everything was black.

Matthew was dead weight, left to the fragile security of Ludwig's unwilling arms.


	26. chapter twentyfive

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**: (zero's illness)

When his eyes pried open, sticky and wet, he was greeted with an orange glow flitting around the edges of his conscious. The light was accompanied by a localized heat; right on top of his temple, right there. What was going on? He felt as if he'd been shot. Stabbed. Beaten. Mutilated. His limbs were heavy, and in consideration, he wasn't sure where his legs were. They could have been broken, folded underneath him, and he wouldn't have been none the wiser.

But he was sure he was sitting. Sitting... and his spine was bent forward. He was leaning over... something. A table. Draped forlornly like a jacket at the end of the day. Maybe he had been thrown, because his chest was throbbing. As if he'd been tossed. The table was smooth; he could register the feel of his arms cuddled underneath his chin.

Excluding the ominous orange light, everything else was showered in black, a black that was slowly receding; in the moments where he was captured in darkness, waiting for clarity, he wondered. What would his fuzzy vision reveal to him? Where would he be? The prime thing going on in Matthew's head was that he'd fallen asleep at work. He had never done that before. He was a loyal, example employee. He'd probably stayed up too late, watching a hockey game; was sore with hangover, he shouldn't have had that extra beer in celebration, damn it all. (But what a match! What a play! The last point before the buzzer!) And now he was slumbering at his desk, and his boss was going to catch him. Any minute! Any second now! Actually, he could already feel eyes running over the front of his head...

Hurry, before he's caught...

Still lethargic, Matthew slowly retracted, straightening like a closing umbrella. As he sat numbly in his chair, wondering when the company had switched the seating plastic to leather, he realized that it wasn't that he had been _imagining_ an orange glow and darkness - that's what it was. In actuality. The orange light was the desk lamp sitting in front of him - funny, he didn't remember buying it - and the darkness was because he hadn't turned on the lights yet. Glancing to the corners of the room, it was useless, because... he couldn't recall where the switch was...

"What are you looking for?"

The voice. Wasn't his boss's. None of his co-workers's. It was grating, sarcastic. And it was right in front of him. Matthew's face tightened in surprise, though he was silent. His mouth was filled with cotton, figuartively, curved all the way down his throat. He saw that he wasn't sitting at _his_ desk. He was sitting at someone else's.

...Had he already gotten in trouble for coming in with a hangover...? Was he in the presense of the assistant manager? Was the boss to busy to deal with him?

The cotton in his neck became sodden, with it his clouds faded. He didn't have a hangover. He couldn't keep fooling himself.

Ludwig was sitting in front of him.

"The... the light-switch," Matthew muttered, bewildered. His reality and his previous misunderstandings were dancing around one another, and he couldn't keep his sight still. He wasn't sure what light steps to follow. So he said, "Usually it's right... over here..." He put his hand out to the side; felt nothing, but darkness. "Why... why is it so dim in here...? Why aren't my windows... why aren't they - "

Silently, Ludwig reached out and titled the head of the lamp so that it craned toward him, spilling its warmth all over his face. His eyebrows were thick bricks pushing down on his eyes, as they watched Matthew.

In a reaction he hadn't planned, Matthew whined, cried out, because his eyes were weak. Vulnerable.

They were too used to darkness to even accept the light.

Ludwig released a sigh, from deep within his chest, one he'd been withholding for a while. He was mellow, not as angry as he'd been. Wasn't yelling at him. Was calm. He took the lamp and turned it away from Matthew, merciful at the moment. He sounded tired as he spoke, seemed to be repeating himself: "I'll ask you again. Who else is involved? And what do you know?"

Matthew opened his mouth, felt as if he was separating mounds of pancake batter. Fat, and greasy. Hefty. Thick. Too hefty. Too thick. He couldn't possibly answer, what with his face made out of batter. He began to shake his head to rearrange the puzzle pieces in his head, and the tips of his hair caught in his lips, like drips of syrup onto pancakes. "I..." There was nothing of sense he could say. So he just tried blinking away the shock from the light. But the more his eyelids fluttered, the more irritated his retinas became. He narrowed his eyes in appeal, and ended up closing them. "...What?"

There it was - the tempurature increased, just a bit. Ludwig wasn't willing to wait. Didn't want to play games. He was going to pressure him, push onto him until he crumbled. But what good would that do? Matthew was made of dough. He would just... squish. "I want you to tell me how you know about the memories! How you have them!" he barked,

"I… I really don't…" His eyes were absolutely on fire. What an impact an innocent lamp could cause! He put the moons of his hands up to his tear ducts, and smothered them forcibly.

"Stop the act. I know that you know more than you should. So you should stop playing the victim and tell me all that you know."

What act? Matthew pulled his arms away, so he could stare evenly at Ludwig; he attempted to search the blue orbs opposite to him, to see what he was seeing. It was only when he blinked and felt the glossy sheen that Matthew realized salt water was racing down his face. This bothered him, that he had even lost control of his own reactions. He hadn't even been able to tell if he was crying, and that was the most basic of all emotions! He pinned the blame on Ludwig; Ludwig, and Ludwig only. And Ludwig wanted information.

So he would deny him that.

Matthew glared at him and snarled, "I _won't_ betray him."

Ludwig settled backward into the cushion of his seat. A tiny smile lit up the corner of his lips. "So he's male?" he concluded.

His heart stalled. He didn't think gender was such an issue, but the fact that with such little to go on, Ludwig could draw such accurate and damning conclusions... He needed to be more careful. More safe than sorry. Softly, "...No."

"Okay," Ludwig allowed him; then he was quiet for a minute. Observed the pristine tips of his fingers. Soon enough he interrogated, "So how do you know this... androgynous person you speak of?"

Anger. Anger filled him up to his shoulders. But, with his head, he knew that his reflex to protect everything and anything Gilbert was overrode by the situation. He couldn't be too suspicious...

Suddenly, a thought.

Or could he?

If Matthew gave quirky answers, that could possibly make Ludwig think he was innocent! That Alfred had just been crazy out of his mind, and had no idea what he'd been talking about. (A plausible scenario, actually.) He answered, "They're the most important person in the _world_ to me."

Ludwig scrunched his face in disgust. Attachment to that extent didn't exist. Wasn't emotionally possible. "Oh. Well. What does… this person tell you?"

"That I'm important to him, too," he replied shamelessly.

"Not that," Ludwig spat. "You must be crazy to believe that anything more than a mutually beneficial relationship has any productivity. Whatever... feelings are stirring around your head is part of the problem." He noticed Matthew's shoulders rose, like a Terror about to pounce, and shook him off with a movement of his head. "What else?" he quipped.

Matthew wasn't following. He was still rifled about the 'no love' issue. "What do you mean?

Ludwig passed a hand over his face, a sign that he believed he was dealing with someone of obvious lower intelligence. "What fables has he been spinning? What stories does he unfold? What lies does he feed you?"

"Lies?" Matthew's face contorted in incredulity. "What are you talking about?"

Ludwig lost all expression then. The muscles in his face relaxed, the skin sagged comfortably to the sides. His eyes glazed over, and he was very far away. He peered over Matthew's head for a moment before mumbling, "You can't possibly believe him, do you?"

There was a clearly condescending, malevolent tone that didn't quite agree with Matthew. It made whatever apprehensive butterflies that had been floating in his stomach smolder into a heavy ash that poisoned his insides.

"All of these… 'memories' he tells you that you have. This… 'connection' we all share." He spoke rhetorically, as if the comical suggestion was possible. He paused, thinking over the absurdity; then he laughed openly, in Matthew's face.

"It's all a hoax!"

The determination radiating broke Matthew's disposition. Any rebellion in him faded. "That's not true," he blurted; his mouth was desperate to move, while his mind had slowed to a stand-still.

"What do you know?" Ludwig taunted. He put his hands in the air, the large confines of his upper arms bulging. Huge. Could easily take him down. "You thought you were somewhere else when you first woke up! Did you even know that you're in my office, the office of the High A Commander, and you've been brought here because of delusional behavior in the sight of the public?"

Matthew stared at him. "What? I've never - "

Ludwig interrupted him with a dark laugh. "You did. You tried telling the other officers about some old world we used to be a part of. Some of the officers were very disturbed. When we tried to contain you, you put up a fight and we had to subdue you. That might be why you can't remember!"

Ludwig continued, "You have no idea what's going on here, officer. It's disrespectful to disagree on a subject you're ignorant on...

"But let's get back to the subject at hand. The real threat is the one telling you this preposterous things - this informant of yours. Whoever he is, he's some sadistic fool who's probably enjoying watching you crazily prance around, thinking that you used to live in - in some other world! Ha! That's ridiculous. There's only this, and this world. There was never anything else." Ludwig's face had become quite colored by the end of his minuscule monologue; he seemed overly satisfied, though. A smile was present; he looked sadistic himself, smiling as Matthew had his own misunderstandings crawling under his skin like bugs.

He thrashed his head, and clasped his throbbing temples. He was going to combust. He had never gone out into the public area. He hadn't talked to any other officers for nearly a week now. It simply couldn't be true. It was just... a fabrication.

But so convincing.

So couldn't Gilbert's tale just as easily be a fabrication as well?

That thought killed him. Matthew convulsed, bending to press his boiling forehead to the desk. Panted heavily, while he realized - there was only thing that Ludwig couldn't possibly explain. The one thing that proved Gilbert's honesty, and his brother's lies.

"I've – I've experienced it all myself," he gasped, suddenly sitting upright again. A rush of colors overcame him. "How - how can you sit there and tell me it's all _fake_?"

Those flashbacks were real. So real. He had been there, in the old world - with Kumajirou. Gilbird.

And Gilbert.

The confidence Ludwig displayed - the way he didn't even flinch - scared Matthew, senseless; so for just a moment, he was just a sack of skin and blood, poised and without thought. Not registering anything else, only awaiting Ludwig's words like one would await their own funeral; "I know what you're talking about. I felt it, you know; from officer Austria. Let me explain what has happened, and relieve you of your nativity.

"Your informant, whoever he is, triggered something in you. Your informant is unlucky enough to have the sickness. He spread it to you. Normally, it would just go away, but... he told you a lot of garbage that made you spread it. His intent - whoever he is - is to take down the station. He's probably a double agent. To conclude, the... memories are more of a disease than… a real thing."

Disease…

It made sense…

The... the supposed Relations Reflex. It could have been the body's natural response to fight off infection, just very pronounced. And... the memories. Just shared illusions. Hallucinations. Nothing more than that.

That was what logic told him. This is what he told Ludwig: "No, I don't believe you."

Ludwig was visibly taken aback. Surprised that his out-pour of very conclusive information did not change his mind. He responded in a roar, "Why not? What is wrong with you?"

"Because… because…" His tongue was putty. Wouldn't make any other sounds, except for the repetitive two-syllable word. The reason for that was that his mind and his mouth were performing under different systems. They weren't connected, not anymore. But his words couldn't just be air; they had to be backed by ideas, proclamations.

Matthew had none. Just an irrational knot clinging to the back of his brain; he wanted to name it hope. Call it faith. But it was nameless, sinfully so.

Jumping at the chance to further prove his point while his opposite was disabled, Germany was quick to feed off of his slight doubt: "Why don't you believe me, but you believe your informant?"

"I… but…"

"Is it just because you feel connect to them?"

There was only one thing - this was the knot - that shone in brilliant clarity to him. He spoke sharp: "I love him."

Ludwig practically spoke over him, scoffing. "I don't know the meaning of the world."

Desperate not to leave any space for rebuttal, he let his words come out in a fast string: "If I had come to you first, telling you that the disease this person was going to spread to you was coming, would you have believed me over him?"

"That doesn't…" Again, by itself, his mouth could only achieve minimal results. It couldn't breach any farther without its thought process behind it.

Ludwig, with the grace of a feather and the form of a thick tree trunk, rose from his chair. His hands were fists on the surface of his desk. Veins, long and curving, protruded through the thin skin of neck; the blood underneath simmered in stimulant. He spoke with his voice deeper than the sea:

"You're sick. You're critically, critically sick."


	27. chapter twentysix

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**: (more unwanted visitors)

Matthew began to shake. The nerves underneath his skin were quivering. It was such a strange feeling... It was if he was erupting with fever, despite being thrust twenty feet under the ocean's coldest waves. A contradiction. The whole situation was a contradiction. Being told... that he was sick, while simoltaneously being informed that everyone else was ill? What kind of joke was this? His pupils twitched around anxiously, trying to find answers in the air. His teeth collided, over and over again, but finally, his tongue separated the opposing forces and he stammered: "No… no… that's not right! _I'm_ not sick. I'm not... being lied to. He - he wouldn't... Ah..." Suddenly his vision went blurry.

Ludwig's stare conveyed the upmost dubiety, especially when Matthew began to massage his forehead, as if he was feeling feverish.

Matthew tried again, once more, desperately: "A – Alfred's the one that's sick! I need to be with him." He was basically pleading, considering the slow drag in his tone. This was his escape plan. His only plan. Run to Alfred's side. Away from everything and everyone else. Just like he had done all through their childhood. A childhood that _was_ real. Not fabricated. He was remembering now.

Oh how the bullies would always want his homework, or want him to do theirs; they bartered, if they got the work, Matthew could keep his face the way it was. And while yes, Matthew was deemed a weakling in the eyes of many, he had pride. He never gave up his notebooks or his binders to them. He believe the quality of his work was the only thing that made him special, and why would he spread that? Why would he waste it?

Alfred had always found him - had always been a super-hero to rescue him from villains. He'd worn the dirty red cape, glued construction paper to his face as a mask. Use the wooden ruler from math class as a sword. "Be gone, evil-doers."

Be gone.

And now that Alfred was in trouble... Now that Alfred's life was in danger... Matthew was going to repay him for all those years of loyalty.

He was going to be the hero this time.

Matthew ventured to stand, even though he still couldn't quite feel his feet. He wobbled, swayed like fabric in a wind. What had happened to him? Hadn't he eaten recently? Where was his backbone? He was malleable, and he felt he'd be easily crushed by powerful words… "I need to watch over Alfred right now, and make sure he's okay. No one else will do it. Can't you let me do that?"

"No, I can't let you out of my sight," Ludwig decided. "You'll try to preach your lies to him. Poison him." He ran his tongue over the confines of his mouth. "He's conflicted," Ludwig said, referring to Matthew's sick sibling. "It's sad... Alfred has the power to be so strong. To get to such great heights. But he's refusing it, because he has too much of a moral standard." Brushing his thumb over his other fingers, he murmured, "Really, he _deserves_ the pain."

He stalled. Cryptic, was the first word in Matthew's head. He didn't think Ludwig and Alfred had ever... well, had ever honestly met before. Why would Ludwig have such an impression of him? Was Alfred just outwardly insufferable? Maybe… But so much so that a stranger would wish him harm? Never… Nonetheless, he was fortunate for the change in topic. "How can you say that?" he whispered in disbelief. He explored his peripheral vision, trying to find an exit, a window, anything at that point; he needed out, and he needed out quickly.

The lights were still off. A dull humming was coming from the back wall.

Behind him, a door was situated – but it was closed, and he could make out a large lock on it.

Drat, drat…

"I say it because it's true," Germany defended ruthlessly, his eyebrows constricted.

Words scrolled across a screen in Matthew's mind, and he knew he was conjuring up something made to kill. He was pulling out a sucker punch. Something he knew would sting, would burn.

He passed his tongue over his lips before he spat, losing himself, "How would _Feliciano_ react if he knew you were doing this? _Torturing_ Alfred, trying to _implicate_ me? Just imagine what he'd call you. Horrible. Callous. Mer –" But he had to stop. Because his mouth was lined in foam. He couldn't breathe, he was so surprised at himself.

Was Matthew really so cruel? To pull out the mention of a lover? And degrade someone's reputation in their name?

When Germany's eyes flashed, he knew he was going to be hit – he felt the sudden adrenaline that sped throughout his blood, chilling him rather than warming. (There was that contradiction again.) He could imagine the sharp slap across his skin – or the fisted palm that would shatter his noise. And he knew he deserved it. He was sorry.

Just as he flinched –

There was an unfamiliar noise that echoed throughout the room, speaking robotic words, monotone and flat.

"The Monitor," Matthew breathed, not believing his luck.

Had it really been there the whole time?

Who knew who could have heard him…?

Did Gilbert know how horrible he'd just been?

Germany had no reaction whatsoever as he turned around to address the talking machine.

When Germany's back was toward him, the moment those icy eyes had faded away, Matthew leapt on the speedy adrenaline rush and disappeared.

…Only if it was that simple.

He had spun around, and started toward the door. His foot caught on the flat carpet, pulling him down like a building. The descent was silent; but he scraped up his palms in his swift attempt at getting up.

Matthew reached the door, the only exit, and watched the lock blink slowly at him. He wanted to hit the door, take out any and all frustrations… But that would make noise, and he had to be quiet.

So he messed with the lock on the door – it was a keypad, its numeric numbers so few and yet so many, and without any inkling of what the password could be, he slammed any and all numbers and pushed 'activate' at times he saw fit.

Nothing was working, but he didn't stop.

Constant error beeps were coming from it.

_Error… Error… Error…_

"Bring him in." Germany's voice was an unwelcome reminder that he wasn't alone. That he was still captured, and in an enemy's hands.

Germany wasn't talking to him, Matthew knew… But he felt that people – no, officers – were about to rush at him at all sides and tackle him, hold him, subdue him. And then take him away.

This paranoia made him sick to the stomach. He didn't want to be taken away…

_Error, error!_

Maybe he really was ill, but just mentally.

_Error._

Because Matthew couldn't seem to understand that there was no one behind him.

_Err –_

The door cracked, breaking through the clouds in his head. But Matthew hadn't opened it. An outside force pushed it straight into him, and he fell onto his back.

He choked on his own breath, trying to rise from the ground with a crick in his neck – get away, get away, get away! – but the persons who had entered… stopped him cold. Cold as a fire, dead as springtime flowers; again he was a roaring contradiction as he lay there, unmoving, with his eyes pitifully fixated.

In a climax, his heart stopped beating.


	28. chapter twentyseven

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**: (five argues change and zero finds freedom)

Then his heart was racing thousands of miles. It was less than a moment he had been left dead on the floor; now he was alive, oh so obviously so, and he almost regretted it. He stared, because that was all he could do – that was all he was reduced to. Let his eyes drink in everything while his mind and mouth both slowly dragged forward. "G… G…?" Blood flowed so painfully through his face. But his lips were white, because he pressed down and bit upon them.

"Mattie," Prussia trilled, as if everything was fine. His shoulders were arched unnaturally, as if someone, something was pulling him down... They… They had gotten him after all! Gilbert! But before Matthew could succumb to his paranoia again, a deathly smooth voice threaded its way into his head. "There you are! What're you doing on the ground?" A deep light from the hallway cascaded over Gilbert's neck; it was if he wore a cape, a brilliant one, so pure that is was invisible. To everyone but him.

Matthew was speechless. The tall man… Officer… Officer… Matthew couldn't place the name. Not then. Not the fake one, nor the real one… But the tall man was holding Prussia's wrists in one large hand. The man jerked Prussia forward and around Matthew's form, as if he wasn't even there. Just a mold underneath the carpet, easily avoidable.

Matthew remembered that he was breathing. And suddenly that was too much for him; the weight of exhalation in itself made his chest distastefully light. He fell backward, laying with his face up to the ceiling; but the ceiling was just a reminder of where he couldn't reach, so he closed his eyes. The heels of the nameless officer's boots were about a foot behind his head. The shadow from the tall officer offered Matthew relief.

The officer began to talk fluently, formally, with his voice a deep rapture. "Sir, I found him – " Referring to Gilbert. Matthew wasn't caught. Gilbert was the hostage. " – loitering in the hallway. And I thought, since the two of you had such an unpleasant encounter before, 'Wouldn't it be best for them to talk it out now that it's all blown over?' It was very thoughtful of me, was it not?" But then his eardrums rattled, registering Matthew's whimpers from the floor, just behind his feet. "Da, Canada?" he said to himself in a question, turning around and recognizing the small frame. "Oh! I did not see you there!" And he laughed. Darkly. His pale eyebrow was quirked, the purple pupils assessing him, before he lost interest. (Why were his eyes purple? Matthew wondered.)

Russia spoke to Germany, "I didn't know you had company, my apologies! I'll just bring this worthless little –"

"Hey!" Prussia reeled against him. "Hey! No name calling, you Commie!" Metal could be heard shuttering.

"Commie?" Russia frowned, tilting his head; thoroughly confused. "What is that?"

Germany was glaring toward Prussia. "Yes; thank you Officer Russia. I'll take care of him. Please leave us now."

With swiftness unnatural to his large stature, Russia had let go of Prussia and had knelt next to Matthew. One knee was in the carpet, the other hovering above like a grimace. His large, chilly hands took the young man's chin, wrenching the top half of him from the floor. "Should I escort this one out for you, while I'm at it, da?" he asked slyly, a bit of a smile lighting him up.

"Don't touch him!" Prussia growled defensively. He wanted to run toward them, but he felt a hot glare against the back of his neck warning against it. Also, he was handcuffed to a chair.

Matthew quivered. With his new vantage point of sitting up, he was able to see the glistening metal that held Prussia so firmly. It looked like a snake that had already swallowed Gilbert's hands. It was going to get to his elbows soon, if Matthew didn't do anything! He had whimpers boiling in his throat, but he couldn't – make – a sound…

"No," Germany accented. Matthew had forgotten he was there. His eyes changed position, watching the shadows over Germany's body form his hand, as it raised to signify a negative answer. That's all Germany had always been… A shadow. Ever there, constantly silent… But could swallow you whole in seconds.

And the magic thing was, it left you with the feeling that you'd swallowed yourself.

Germany peered equally to each of his… 'guests', seeming almost pleased at the party he'd managed to stir up. He mulled it over for a while, then, slowly: "They're both in here for the same reason." Certain knowledge had lit up his face.

Matthew's heart jump-started. The snake moved up Gilbert's arms. Germany knew! Germany knew it was Prussia who had given his memories back!

But… how? Had he revealed it somehow?

Oh… God… it hit him.

He'd revealed it.

By talking about love.

Because Germany knew about them.

So… didn't that mean Germany had the memories too?

Then… Then…?

"Oh." Russia faded in what looked like disappointment. His shoulders fell and he dropped his hand from Matthew's face. His eyes were wide and stared empathetically to Matthew. "You're really in deep now, da?" His voice was evil. But it carried with it the feeling of holding a fresh stuffed animal for the first time. Light to the touch, but menacing? How did that make sense…?

But Russia stood, leaving Matthew nothing but the trees of his legs to stare at. He nodded with a smile to Germany before exiting out of the beam of light that the doorway had been reduced to. Because the room itself was so dark.

With trembling limbs that looked like branches to Russia, Matthew brought himself onto his knees. The door was presently wide open, and inviting in front of him. He stared at it succulently, because out there… Somewhere… was Alfred.

What about Gilbert?

He could handle himself before his little brother, right?

By himself?

"So you tried to run from me, Canada?" Germany said, his tone impossibly solid.

Just the way that Germany spoke made all notions of freedom dash from Matthew's head. The doorway was now the entryway to hell instead of heaven. It'd be a death sentence to pass through it.

Unless…

"N – No," he stammered.

Unless he got help from Gilbert…

"It doesn't matter," Germany responded coolly, shaking his head. Matthew was nothing now, now that he had the main source. Why bother with the flunky when you have the whole corporation? So he spun his chair a bit toward Prussia. "You've infected Canada," he stated. Blandly. He didn't give any more information; conveying with his eyes all he wasn't saying.

"I told you bro, that thing about me having AIDS was just a rumor." Prussia pulled against the metal rings, hissing, distracted. "Unless…" Prussia curved his neck, meeting his eyes with Matthew's. The sudden onslaught of red to Matthew's vision was so soothing. "Unless there's someone you haven't told me about, Matt?" Gilbert's smile was all Matthew needed.

Matthew envied him. So calm. Unbreakable. Able to crack jokes in a time like this…

Prussia turned away too fast, for Matthew, at least. He spoke to his younger brother: "Do I need to get tested?" The shackles about him moaned with every movement.

Germany's eyes seemed to be cracked in half, bleeding all over his face, with his fury. "This isn't a joke, Officer. This is the most serious you will ever see. But do you even see? Look at him," Germany exclaimed, holding at a hand to Matthew. "He's positively _shaking_! And it's your fault. You've done this to him."

Matthew tried to stop, stop, but his shoulders couldn't remain still. His teeth were firecrackers going off in his skull. He shifted about, half his profile to Gilbert. But said nothing.

"This should be proof, if nothing else makes sense to you, that you need help. You can't go around bothering people. It only causes trouble, do you hear me?"

Prussia paused, looking at Matthew. Assessing him, but kinder than Russia had. There was an emotion on display that was rare – a hint of guilt. Regret, with a spice of misery added to the mixture.

Matthew couldn't believe… Gilbert actually felt wrong for the situation? Matthew had never felt more alive. This had been what he had missing! Even if, at the moment, it was pure terror, it was more emotion he'd felt ever since he'd gotten to the station. Gilbert – Gilbert and that ring – were the things to awaken him. How could Gilbert regret it? Could he see how thankful Matthew actually was?

Gilbert gritted his teeth, sliding them like sandpaper, before looking away to Germany. Changing the subject, moving the blame. "_You've_ scared the living daylights out of him, bro! What in the world did you _say_? You can't…" Gilbert pulled against the cuffs. He didn't move.

It was odd. It seemed the chair was cemented to the floor – it was – just for this purpose…

But the force Gilbert used seemed deadly. In fact, Matthew noticed tiny specks of blood afflicting the carpet, vertical from where Gilbert's hands were situated…

Was this his plan? Rip his hands off, so they could get away?

If only Matthew could remember where his feet were…

"I simply turned him right." Strings in Germany's shoulders pulled the set up, then released them. He sighed heavily and started with, "I told you, Prussia; you need to get your mind under control – your insanity could spread. And apparently… it has." His eyes, very cool, very dull, fixated onto Matthew; was that sympathy? It was so sudden...

Matthew could only hope that he wasn't crying. He placed his hands over his cheeks to make sure. No salt water – only a dull burning from where Alfred had struck him.

"Aw, shit. Ludwig, you're such a jackass," Prussia cursed, shaking his head and lifting his foot up and down as if he was about to throw a fit. His hair slapped him. It had grown quite long recently. "I know you. You – I know you're taking this hard. I know that you think what they've done to all of us is for the better, and for all you know it is making everything better! But did you ever think about looking at it, not from a military point of view, but a moral one? And… You think that with me spreading the truth to others, I'm threatening your small little world… but change is nice. It's _fine_."

"It's not fine," he interrupted, argued. He stopped looking to his trembling prisoner; he glared at his unwanted sibling. Germany had anger jumping at the surface of his skin. "You're _not_ in the right."

Prussia blew hair from his face. "Well, _you_ sure aren't."

Matthew began to tire of the dialogue. He hadn't been informed of… whatever they were talking about. And while he was hurt by that fact, he was used to it. People always carried conversations right overhead, without bothering to lend him a stepping ladder. So he turned toward the doorway again, and an idea struck him: Maybe Gilbert was rambling on for his sake! Maybe this was a distraction, so Matthew could sneak out and visit Alfred! He got to his knees, but quickly fell on all fours, so he could be below the vantage point of the desk. Germany couldn't see him. No one could.

Spiny fingers arched tensely above the carpet. And with his knees as his only other contact point, he slowly, ever so slowly, because to crawl forward. The hallway's light was coming over his head.

Freedom was just within his reach!

Russia had left the door open; one fatal mistake. Russia wasn't so smart as he let on! Leaving the door open, in the middle of an important meeting… But Matthew randomly remembered the pleasant look in Russia's eyes in before he disappeared, and the dots connected together, making a skeleton key. When he thought about it…

Russia had done it on purpose.

Left the doorway split, for the benefit of a lowly, diseased man.

Hugging a fresh stuffed animal, indeed…

"Listen," Prussia pleaded, moving sporadically; there were bugs crawling underneath his clothes. "The memories are real, and you really were taken advantage of, Luddy! You've gotta stop… _preventing_ this. It's making everything worse! Worse than it already is!" He was suddenly so intelligent. He was keen enough to grasp at everything that was going on. It was comparable to the strength one gets on a hit of adrenaline that allows them to lift cars above their heads, whereas they couldn't lift concrete blocks before; Prussia could adequately pinpoint the faults and weaknesses, see the flickering emotions and thoughts, and push them until the dam broke.

It was amazing.

Germany was staring at him, his face tight against his bones. Every etch of his features were tightly evident. Every curvature was another paint stroke, creating the portrait of Ludwig. Or Germany. Maybe both. But never both.

A headache overcame Germany, like a hood that came along with deep thought. He was quiet. Little droplets of knowledge were slipping away, replaced by jewels of reality. And boy, were those jewels heavy!

Prussia had him in a net. And Ludwig flopped around, soggy and as lost as a fish.

"So come on, Ludwig." Prussia's voice was a vibrating violin. It sung with such complicated simplicity, spinning circles in the air until they entagled around Germany's hand and tried to lead him forward. Away from the past, into the present.

Come on, Germany, and bring Ludwig along with you…

"Stop being such a kid. Ha. I've never had to tell you that little bro, but that's what you're acting like right now. A kid. One who can't let go of the toy someone else stole. But, Luddy, just 'cause they stole it doesn't mean you sit there a brood! Get it back!" The simile was over, when it didn't seem to sway Germany in the least. "Just because everything you know is changing doesn't mean you need to… _keep_ it from changing. This progress is good; we need you just to calm down and let it run its course.

"I know you're scared."

There it was – the basis of the situation. Germany was horrified of what was happening, even more so than Matthew. But instead of falling into his own mind, Germany had gripped onto denial. His fault was trying to pressure it onto everyone else, because Gilbert wasn't as afraid as he was.

Germany ran his fingers through his hair, lost in a moment. There it was – timid little tears that built like brinks in the edges of his eyelids. Despite these, he looked more mature than he had in a while. Accepting his fate, but refusing to be pushed down again. Let those bullies try and knock him into the mud again – he had a defense this time!

Crack.

There was suddenly a crack in his armor. He was a small child with tiny fists that could do nothing against the threat that had just appeared… It clung to him and began to haunt; his eyes were saucers as he tried to convey to his brother the knife that had just been lodged into the throat of their revolution: "But… what about the Superiors?"

Prussia stopped moving, and simply let his blood pour onto the carpet for a while as he tried hang onto sanity for a little longer. Oh, nope – it was gone. His eyes were consistently exceeding their normal limit… because the _one_ variable, the one scratch on the plate, the one stain on the bed-sheet… the only thing that he hadn't considered… rose before him.

And wasn't it just huge.


	29. chapter twentyeight

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**: (five is taken aback and four calms)

Matthew was in the hallway. Alone. And he realized it wasn't as bright as he imagined. It wasn't the salvation nor the escape he craved. His back was against the wall and just out of sight, at the very edge of the doorway to Germany's… No, wait, it was now Ludwig's office. Right. Ludwig was back. He had to remember that. So even though he felt safe, out there in the hallway, he wasn't out of the clear yet.

Matthew had planned on sprinting, running, absolutely fleeing to his brother's side once he'd crawled out of the room. But for some reason, his chest rose and fell with dramatically heavy breaths. There must be some respiratory problem. His throat was lined with pine needles; his lungs were overflowing with sulfur, some sort of salt that made his tongue heavy. His lungs were the heftiest part of his body, weighing him down and being what had ultimately sent him crashing to the floor.

The stars of sweat on his forehead and the rapid racing of his heart, alternatively, insured that his adrenaline was very intact and his flexes were sharp, and if need be, it was possible for him to reply on the superhuman abilities it gave him. He would be able to run, once this fit wore off. He would be ready to run at any moment, in case they'd notice he was gone and take harmful action… But that ultimately seemed unlikely. Really, why would they hurt him?

But then why wouldn't they hurt him?

The brothers were having a moment, their motives tangling before them like Christmas lights.

…Matthew could now remember past Christmases. Why had they ever done away with holidays?

"Where – where are they?" Gilbert demanded, his voice empty. There was no more confidence; no more cocky laughs. He had been shown a hand too powerful for him to fight against: the Superiors. They were the only thing he knew he had undeniably no control over. His eyes moved as if he was reading text, looking between the lines of his mind for answers. Desperately flicking, consulting imaginary advisors in his head.

Ludwig was perplexed, responding with a slightly irritated contraction of his countenance. "You know as well as –"

Gilbert snapped his head upward, letting his hair run wild again. Letting it loose, because he couldn't be loose of the situation. This was his only rebellion. "Where are they?"

He screamed it. Screamed it as loud as he could, making Matthew – who had just begun to recover, and get to his feet – fall down.

The skin around Gilbert's wrists were raw and open. The pain seemed lost to him. But Ludwig finally noticed the handcuffs.

Ludwig, silent and quite startled, messed around in the drawers of his desk. He wasn't quite able to pinpoint where, exactly, he kept that skeleton key; so he resorted to searching the endless expanses of junk. It made quite a noise, it was embarrassing. Or it would be, if his dear brother wasn't too far in another world at the moment to discern.

(Ludwig told everyone that his desk was perfectly clean, inside and out. And they believed him. Why shouldn't they? Everything about him was pristine. His stashes of uncleanliness were his literal dirty little secret; the one aspect of his livelihood that he didn't have to play strictly. The one quirk that kept him unique from all of the other programmed officers walking around. Before he'd gotten his memory, his mind was always at war, berating him for keeping the mess. Now, with his memories, he recalled what being an 'individual' really meant.)

He finally found that damned key. They had it around to undo all of the restraints they kept around the station. They had never needed it, or knew why they needed it, until now.

Ludwig stuttered as he walked around the desk, mumbling unintelligently. He was the younger brother here, for goodness sake; Gilbert's invasive demand made it evident. Gilbert could tell him to jump and he'd ask how high. When it came to his brother, Ludwig was nothing more than an inferior. Where had his authority gone? It was away on vacation with his ignorance, apparently…

Quietly, Ludwig grasped his brother's forearms, trying to be gentle but failing, and pressed the key into the lock. He waited for it to click; he glanced at the blood dripping to the floor before looking to eyes that were identical in color to the stains.

"Um – the Superiors are in the HQ, I'd figure," he finally answered, his lips dry, distracting himself with the chains of metal until they sighed in defeat.

Gilbert said nothing about the handcuffs, never did, and only thought for a second before spitting: "That's – that's far away, right?"

"Considerably," Ludwig replied. "Around a week's walk, I'd say. Day or two by vehicle…" He faded off. Ludwig carefully watched his brother's face, because he had no idea what delinquent plan had been concocting.

Ludwig could always tell, even as toddlers, when Gilbert was thinking devilishly, but he could never determine what exact gears were shifting… Ludwig's mind just didn't work like that. So he wasn't sure if the answer he gave was positive or negative: was the HQ supposed to be far away? Or did Gilbert want it closer? What did he even want with the HQ, anyway?

He adventured back to his desk, hands full with the stained handcuffs and the exhausted key. He dropped them into the first drawer that his fingertips brushed; thus ensuring random clutter. Years of this habit caused his secret, unorganized spaces.

He wondered if he should quit.

Gilbert let out a long drag from between his lips, lips that were cracking into a smile. He inflated upwards, his shoulders straightening and his back tightening. But as his emotion slowly came back to him, he still looked pained, which was displayed in his eyebrows. How they contracted, and twitched, right in the edges of his forehead…

"Well," he voiced quietly, trying to convey the worry in fewest words possible; "…Are any of them _here_? In the station, right now?"

"No… not that I know of." But Ludwig didn't want to be sending his brother out on faulty information. Those eyes seemed hell-bent. And if that hell was given to the innocent? Well, he'd seen it too often, what with Gilbert's impulsive outbursts.

He turned his attention to his computer, clicked twice and then he typed, one more click. "Well, there are no Superiors on record in the station, check-ups or otherwise." He retracted his fingers from the keyboard to form a fist, the knuckles of which he branded repeatedly against the desk. He tried to lean back, relax; he only ended up stiffening and sitting full-forward. He tried to keep his surreal discomfort off of his face.

"Okay." Deep breath, audible against his teeth. "Great."

There were mechanisms trembling in his mind, already forming a revolution. A rebellion. Freedom. His key player was still on the floor, though… You need to place the chess pieces before you being to play, after all.

"Matthew, we'll – Mattie?"

Gilbert looked behind him. The floor was bare and blemished. Forlorn and empty. No Matthew. The terror that approached him he accepted, causing his heart to stumble and his lips to go dry. His thoughts ran fast, torn like the edges of paper. Frantic and slight. Matthew was missing. Matthew. Gone. Fear. Anger. Door. Russia. Russia –

He curved angrily back to his brother. "You let Russia sneak back in here and get him, didn't you? Behind my back! What the hell is wrong with you?" He slammed his foot into Ludwig's desk, making thunder erupt throughout the room. The name plate, which read Officer Germany, A Section Supervisor, tipped over.

"Absurd!" Ludwig snapped, but Gilbert's shouts overshadowed him.

"Matthew! Matthew!"

Just as the veins in Gilbert's neck began to throb and pulse beneath his skin, and his body began to fill with adrenaline, his bloody wrists poised to strike and legs ready to run; Matthew made a noise and put his hand through the doorway.

"Don't do anything rash, Gil," he interrupted, his voice softer and chiller than the air conditioning. "I just… needed fresh air," he lied half-heartedly, popping his head out and smiling a bit. But he was sure his lips were curled unnaturally, and his grin represented the fear he felt at hearing Gilbert so violent. And he knew Gilbert could see that. Gilbert saw everything about him, even if he was invisible. Everything about him was out in the open, when Gilbert was around…

Pause. He breathed out through his nose. "…If it's okay with you, I'm going to stay out here in the hallway…"

Gilbert calmed considerably. "Yeah that's… that's fine." Oxygen came in smoothly between his teeth, making him look peaceful; but the background image – of Ludwig, flustered red, fumbling to reorganize his shattered desk space, almost cowering – spoke wonders. His wounded limbs fell, listless at his sides.

"Oh. Sorry, Luddy," he apologized to his brother; "Matthew's just important to me, ya know." He smiled, his teeth revealing to be slightly off-center in his head. Just like his mind. And probably everything else.

Ludwig stared lowly at Matthew, a bolt of past interaction sealing their eyes to one another's. Maybe a hint of envy, despite. "…So I've heard…"

Matthew shivered, rubbing his hands against his arms, even though he wasn't cold; he just wanted to brush away that earlier conversation along with the momentary doubt he'd had about Gilbert. He worried Gilbert could sense it on his skin. He begged, "Please tell me – what are we going to do now?"

"Now that Ludwig's sane again," Prussia began quietly, with a sharp look to his brother, "we're going to get every else's memory back. Absolutely everyone in the station needs to remember. I know there are a lot of people, but we have to do it. Before any of the Superiors come for one of their visits… They're usually monthly, right, Lud?" There was a plan already running around in his head; that much was obvious.

Ludwig nodded. "Usually. Never on the same date, but never more than once any given month. They should be coming soon, though, if my records are correct…"

Gilbert spoke over his hesitation. "Then if we begin before sundown, by the time your record says they'll be here we'll be gone."

"Gone where, Gil?"

Matthew didn't like the military talk, all of the planning, the execution. He'd rather an excuse to get him out of the conspiring. So Matthew brought up another suggestion, one that had been at the front of mind for so long: "Can I – Can I go see Al? Can I see if my brother's all right now?" The way he phrased it made it difficult to deny, that was not lost to him.

Gilbert softened, remembering the pain of a struggling sibling that he wasn't around to soothe. He wanted to give Matthew some relief. "Sure, Mattie. Go on ahead. Don't get yourself hurt, alright? Matt…" Three words were on the tip of tongue – but Matthew was gone.

Matthew was up quicker than he thought possible. He went running, even though he had no clue where he was. He had been at Officer Germany's office, right? If that was true, he was still lost… He'd never been into the A section's offices before. Turning every corner he encountered, he tried to map out the station in his head, what little he knew of it.

The cafeteria was the central point of the interior; the training area was the center of the outside. He didn't want to go outside, what with their Monitors and their tendency to track anything that moved in desolate hallways… And he knew he could probably get to the cafeteria, if he followed the signs and such. And from the cafeteria, he knew where the infirmary was. It'd be easy enough to find Alfred, stuffed under white covers on an equally white bed.

Matthew pressed his hands to his skull fleetingly, driving away a headache.

This headache managed to blur the minutes into seconds. The wide cafeteria doors were suddenly right before him. He blinked. "Easier than I thought…" he mumbled.

He pushed them open. A beat of fear registered in his heart. So many people… So many people he was usually so afraid to come across on a normal basis, even when his confidence was near climax. At the moment, the last thing he felt was confident so just their faces made him sick. If he hadn't seen the doorway he needed, just across the room, waiting for him, he probably would have turned on his heels.

With a short breath for reassurance, he ran all the way to the other side, steering past many people, many, many, too many people.

It took forever, it seemed. All at once people wanted to talk to him, converse with him. Some joked about the rush he was in. They all passed like duel winds around him. Then everything slowed down, when one person, one special person, managed to stop him cold with a warm hand on his arm.

He surprised himself when he didn't scream.

First thing he saw was unadulterated happiness. "Matth – I mean, Canada" – here the happiness dulled, becoming more of an undercoat to the words – "how are you feeling?" asked France. (Well, Francis, or, he meant, Dad. Damn. So many names to one tranquil face.) He held his son strongly, but kindly. His smile was restrained and pleasant.

Matthew's eyes had trouble focusing on the caring, handsome face that grinned at him. His father held a lunch plate, filled with nothing more than a sandwich.

Matthew knew his father had more of an appetite than that.

"I – I haven't seen you around," Francis continued, when Matthew was too conflicted to speak. "Here, why don't we sit and talk? I wouldn't mind splitting my lunch."

Uncontrollably, Matthew smiled. It was his first honest reaction of the day. He wouldn't mind sitting around, and catching up with his father. No, not at all. It was obvious that the RR hadn't taken Francis – the fatherly pride in his eyes was too bright to hide, even though he was trying. Matthew liked that look. It made him feel special and soft, and experiencing such a sensation made him remember pleasantries like syrup and white teddy bears. "I – I would love to," he stammered, "but some other time."

The extreme grief that overtook his father's face made his stomach twist.

Francis looked disappointed, as if he hadn't entertained the thought of being rejected.

Matthew imagined taking back what he'd said. Yes, right now, they could sit and pretend that the world wasn't crumbling down around them… But together. Together. Wouldn't that be nice?

This fantasy faded when Francis smirked self-deprecatingly. He used the high intelligence that was always swirling around in his mind to realize what his son was really up to. He winked and brought his face closer to Matthew's, murmuring, "Ah, don't want to look suspicious, do we? Not with all of the Monitors around! _Non_, _monsieur_!" The smooth French sounded like an old, forgotten language. It made Matthew's spine tingle, and his tongue feel dirty with its overuse of English. "I understand," Francis continued. He added in with a short punch, with extra accent: "_Oui_" – drawing out the tantilizing 'w' sound – "some other time."

People rarely shook hands in the station. But Francis, heartily and without shame, took Matthew's hand and squeezed it tight.

Matthew was surprised at how thin and bony it was.

Francis didn't kiss his hand, like usual, or like when he was a child and needed tender comfort. No, it was just a tight squeeze and then it was gone.

"_Oui_, some other time," Francis was whispering to himself, as he strolled along to find himself a table.

Concern lingered on Matthew's shoulders and made him want to run after his father, and ask him about the storm he'd seen brewing behind his normally cheerful eyes. But there was another pair of normally cheerful eyes – Alfred's – that he knew needed more attention at the moment. Resisting the concern of a son for his father was surprisingly hard for him to accomplish… He swallowed hard and, gnawing on his bottom lip, broke through the rest of the crowd and headed toward the doorway that… the doorway that… well, isn't that strange…

This doorway was the one he'd scurried through when he'd first talked to his father again. He remembered papers falling down like snow… Stutters, apologies, and genuine words. A feeling of fear mingled with belonging.

He shook off the thought.

Presently, Matthew hurried his pace. The exchange in the cafeteria had occupied time he hadn't accounted on wasting. He turned, and turned, and turned and – wow, he didn't remember there being so many long and extensive corridors – there, right in front of him, was the tall white door with a red cross at the top of it.

First he smiled, excited about seeing his brother and having a decent conversation. But then little devils of worry danced over his head, and he thought that maybe Alfred hadn't gotten better yet. Maybe he'd gotten worse. Why would he even dare think optimistically? There was an equally good chance that by the time Ludwig had kidnapped him, interrogated him, Gilbert coming, etcetera, etcetera, Alfred had succumbed to the RR.

That would absolutely kill him. Both of them.

Gulping down an impedinging mass of hysteria, Matthew pushed opened the door with unnecessary force and cried out, "Al?"

There was a few moments of silence. A few broken, heart-stalling moments of silence. Nothing moved, no one spoke. And then he heard his brother mumble, "Ah, five more minutes, Dad…"

"Al," Matthew yelled, breaking into a grin. All thoughts of misfortune were sucked out of him in a vaccuum. How could he have doubted his brother? Why would he think Alfred, being the bull-headed and strong person he was, wouldn't have survived? Of course he would. Of course he would…

"Dad, what is it, like noon? It's too early for…" Alfred, rubbing his eyes, had finally sat up and realized that the person who'd busted down his door and broken through his dreams was not, in fact, his father. He was not being awoken for some tea party with his father's bosses… This thought, out of all the others, made him grin like a fool. "Yo, Mattie! How's it hanging?" A hand, with two center fingers folded over in a long-forgotten symbol for musical freedom, jumped up into the air.

Familiar. Excitable.

Alfred.

Matthew smirked. He closed the door behind him as he finally entered, and locked it just in case. He had no idea when someone else would try and barrel into the room he was occupying… It seemed to happen quite a lot, at least to him. But he did not want his time with his brother being interpreted, by any cost. So if locking the door, in what looked like a paranoid move ("What, still afraid of the Boogy-Man, Matt?") would secure their interaction… then so be it.

He moved toward his bed-ridden brother, and his first temptation was to sit on the edge of the mattress. But something, something like a spark in his legs moved him to the chair beside the bed. He sat down, heavily, rubbing his knees with his hands. The indecision within his body was appalling, but he wouldn't let that show. "Hey, Alfred… how are you feeling?" he asked, the remanants of his smile still holding strong.

"Fine," Alfred said blandly. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, at last dispelling all predisposed specks of sleep. "But how'd you get out?" he inquired.

Matthew blinked, waiting for his brother to elaborate. But when Alfred just turned and looked at him expectantly, he emitted: "What?"

"Germany totally had murder in his eyes when he dragged you out. Sorry I couldn't, you know, come to your rescue or anything," he admitted ashamedly. "But how'd you convince Germany to let you go?" Alfred leaned backward, letting his lower back rely on the comfort of his pillow. He rubbed his neck a little bit.

Surprised, Matthew just stared at him for a moment. He'd expected something… lighter to talk about. Not murderous intents or kidnappings. Alfred was so serious… that wasn't the Alfred he remembered, or wanted to talk to at the moment.

But Matthew had to take what he could get, even if that meant talking about something he wasn't too sure about quite yet. "Um – I had… help," he said uncertaintly. Help was an understatement. He'd been given a wide open door, and all he'd done was crawl through it.

Alfred didn't question him, though he seemed dubious about whom the 'helpful' identities were. "Ah. That makes sense… But what about Germany?"

"Germany – he's – he's seen the light," he confessed, putting it as simply as he could.

Alfred's eyes widened, a first showing of real emotion. Swallowing silently for a few seconds, he looked at his brother. He no longer laid recumbent; he erected with his back as straight as a board. His face was pale as he stuttered, "He's – you've – _what_? Please tell me you didn't kill 'im, bro. You didn't kill 'im, right, bro? Right? Bro!" He reached out to shake his sibling about the shoulders.

"Al… No, heaven's no, of course not! Get a hold on your imagination, please." Matthew hadn't even considered… murder! And yet it was the first thing that came into Alfred's head… He took his brother's hands off of him, putting them back on the bed where they belonged. "…We just calmed him down." Again, he didn't seem committed on explaining who 'we' were. "After he remembered everything, he just… lost it." He shrugged. "You know him. He doesn't like change. Order, order, order, that's how he likes it," Matthew joked, adding in a few hand gestures and laughing seamlessly at himself.

Alfred settled back into the bed, not sparing a laugh, and not seeming to agree with him.

Matthew chewed on his bottom lip. But that reminded him of his interaction with his – gulp – father previously and he instantly he stopped.

He couldn't find the courage to ask the questions that were really on his mind. So he looked over his brother. That's when he noticed the shiver on Alfred's shoulders… the fragileness of his fingers, how they appeared to be made of glass. He resorted to reiterating a previous sentiment: "Al, are you sure you're um… fine?"

Alfred turned bloodshot eyes to him, reading him in seconds. He corrected his posture, and consciously soothed the shaking of his body to ease his brother's overwhelming anxiety. He hid his hands under the blankets. "Hell no," he grumbled. "I feel terrible. Feel like… Feel like… Sh-… I feel like trash, and that's the kindest way I'm going to put it." Taking in his sibling's distracted state, he realized, "But that's not what you want from me, right?" He laughed when Matthew looked stricken. "I can see through you like a light, Matt. What's bothering you?"

Matthew winced. He wished for something to babble on about. Just… some idle chatter to ease both of them into a serious topic. He didn't want to jump right in with the sharks… But Alfred threatened a Charlie Horse if Matthew didn't come clean. So Matthew, reluctantly, started, "I just – I just don't want to _pressure_ you…"

"Go on," Alfred assured, smirking. Charlie Horses always solved problems. "Shoot."

He stared into his brother's eyes, and realized they were back to normal. Their shining baby blue, as normal as that was in their society. Their society. He looked away from those eyes, steeling himself. He wanted to know:

"Alfred… who did this to us?"


	30. chapter twentynine

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**: (four explains)

Alfred seemed to try and flee from Matthew. But remembering that he was on a bed and he only had so far to go, he stopped moving when he nearly fell onto the floor. He breathed heavily, like his fever was coming back to him. His eyebrows pressed against one another, as he stilled in defeat. He looked to his brother, eyes wet and head shaking. "Aw, Matt… _really_?"

Matthew almost took it back. He almost laughed as if he was kidding. He's just kidding! But, realizing that if he wanted anything done, he'd have to be forceful with his persuasive sibling, he clenched his hands and swallowed. He couldn't get weak right when things started to get tough. After collecting his inner strength, he demanded with no sympathy, "Yes. Tell me."

"Out of all the questions…" Alfred muttered, crossing his arms defensively and rearranging himself. One of his blankets had jumped onto the ground in his struggle, so he laid there in nothing but a wrinkled and tight uniform, pouting like a child. "It's like asking where babies come from," he continued, looking away and speaking through a tight jaw. "You're curious until you find out how it really happens and then you wish you hadn't asked." He glared.

Matthew wasn't giving into the distractions, even if the analogy startled him. What was it he didn't want to know? Was it the who, the what, or the where? Which part of this story made Alfred so disinclined? He repeated, "What happened, Al?" adding in a bit of innocence and confusion for good measure.

Alfred could never refuse that voice. Never had. It sounded like a princess begging to be saved from the top of a tower. And Alfred, sword and all, would always reroute himself just to rescue the princess. Stupid princess. Didn't she know that it was so much safer up in the tower? That her evil step-mother is right, she won't want to be down here? He blew hair out of his eyes, displacing the fairy tale images in his head. He scratched his face, finding it greasy and tense. "It's extremely complicated. I… I don't even know when it first began. Somewhere around the year… twenty-eleven? I don't know." He sighed, finally taking the breath needed for such an unveiling.

Places, everyone, places. The curtain was rising, the actors were prepared, and the narrator took center stage to spill the words of the world's becoming. He could not see the audience, his eyes bright blue and blurry, but Matthew sat in the audience, nothing more than a witness.

"The world leaders of the time… they had made this new technology that had the opportunity to remake the whole world. Everything. The people, places. The animals would stay the same, because in the leaders's eyes, they had not done any harm."

In his seat, Matthew thought of birds and bears.

"It could mean catastrophe; it could mean salvation. They weren't completely sure, but being the power-hungry beings they were, they picked out a random group of people with the strongest traits and chose them to be held here in this… _station_ just in case their 'new world' failed. So, you know, if everyone else died by the new world's creation, or the new world was unsuccessful, they had a selection of people already moved to a kind of safety point so the human race wouldn't halt. They could start over.

"With us." Alfred stopped for a moment, cringing. Let the audience catch up with the profound words he spoke. He tested out his memory, feeling more and more uncomfortable with each thing he dug up. Like poking at bruises that had long ago faded, and now that they were being prodded, they burst in bright colors of blue and purple. As if absolutely no time had passed. He was sore, tired, and irritated. But he was strong. "And…"

"But the Terrors!" Matthew suddenly implored, eyes wide. It was not standard for the audience to break the fourth wall and jump on stage, shaking the narrator for more information. A brand new thought had occurred, pulling him to his feet. "They're – they're the souls of the people who died when the new world was made, right? Which was everyone else but us." The thought itself was horrifying, but ran right over it and said, "Then why are our own souls there? Why are there versions of ourselves? Why is Gilbert _dying_?" The narrator did not answer him, so he took his seat again.

Alfred's face relaxed with sympathy, a light sugary coating that made Matthew want to cry. His words were soft and soothing, clearly the voice of a caring and supportive brother. "Listen, Matthew… when they remade the world, they couldn't possibly keep us _all _intact. They transported us here with very high technology that had a side effect, apparently – we lost our memories. We all lost a bit of our selves, too, because of that – and those parts are probably out with the Terrors. But they're still part of us, such a big part of us, so when they're destroyed, we are. It keeps alive from a distance. At least, that's my theory.

"Gilbert's just… _unlucky_," he finished, timidly stepping onto the sensitive territory of all Matthew held dear.

Matthew was unresponsive.

"B-Because our memories were cleared," Alfred started again, fast and desperate to bring some sort of emotion out of Matthew, another outburst, who knew you could be so reliant on someone's impulsive emotions; "the leaders thought, 'Hey, we might as well screw their lives up, too!' So they told me 'n' you that our eyes were weird and took 'way our specs. They told Francis that using a mix of languages was wrong. They told Roderich that music didn't exist. They told Antonio that the craving he always had for tomatoes was just his mind teasing him. Tomatoes didn't exist. He barely eats now.

"See, those are the parts they lost," Alfred said. "I could go on. I could tell you all of the horrible things they've told us that are wrong when they took us, the safety net, and shook us about – but I'll spare you." He settled back into his pillowcases, satisfied at the heroic act. There you go princess, he'll ease you to the ground step by step.

"Why would you spare me?" Princess, with a voice so dark.

Princess wanted to jump.

A hard sense of misfortune came over them. It bit Alfred square in the chest. He looked to his brother, fighting the childish urge to bury him in a hug and let the warm embrace melt everything away. But he'd gotten what he wanted from the sibling – a response. Matthew hadn't gone numb, which was the worst possible scenario. So until the point when Matthew, and by extension himself, were too apathetic to keep on going, Alfred wasn't going to let them fall. They'd get to the ground, surely, surely. Mindless pleasantries were dancing around in his head. He reminded himself: he couldn't forget about the point of their conversation, to dissect and determine how they'd gotten here. Using the scant memories each had, maybe they could put something together. He decided to continue his tale.

"Right now we're currently here just… living our fake lives. But they gave us new names, keeping our first names privy knowledge. The codenames we were to primarily use were based on what country we were born in, family history, by what languages we knew, or what country we were really infatuated with… it's almost cool, really, how in this new life we'd still be so unknowingly connected to our old."

Matthew stared.

"Well, no; I guess it's not cool. Not really," Alfred dismissed, with a cough. "And, well, the leaders got Germany and me first."

"Ludwig."

"Wassat?"

"His name's Ludwig. Not Germany."

"Oh... See, when we first met, we had both already been given our names. I was America, because of my patriotism, though I was born in England; he was Germany, being born and raised there. He even had the accent. You know, the whole - "

"His name's Ludwig."

There was a darkness in Matthew's eyes that, even though he knew he shouldn't, Alfred tried to ignore. "They… ahem. They told the two of us that they chose us primarily to lead the groups that would follow. We had the leadership skills, strength, and determination for it – out of everyone else in the world." He timidly pulled at his collar. "I was… I was flattered, really. But as they told me more and more… I hated the idea. I really hated it. Like the chance that most of the population could be destroyed; I mean, it was un-American!

"But Germany... Or, uh, Ludwig… he was… he was _abnormally_ excited. He _really_ believed that most of the people in the world didn't deserve to live. Something must have happened to him to believe that… Some sort of trauma, I guess." A lump formed in his throat. "I never got the chance to ask."

Matthew felt a twinge of regret. Maybe that's why Ludwig had refused the memories so badly… because he'd remembered the part he'd played. How he'd, honestly, started it all. Caused their misery… He was their grim reaper, leading them to death all along.

It made sense he'd want to blame it on a virus.

"So… yeah," Alfred commented. "I finally said… I finally said I'd do it; I'd volunteer to continue to live even though everyone I knew might just perish. I didn't know they'd selected most of my friends at the time. I had begged to at least let me tell my friends and family goodbye, but they said that if I did, everyone would try and follow me. Like, they'd want to be saved too and it'd cause a mass hysteria or whatever. Blah blah blah... Somehow that made sense. Somehow it persuaded me to go along with them. Blindly.

"It was the stupidest… _stupidest_ thing I think I ever did.

"I tried to ask them more specific questions, as they dressed me in this outfit and took me into this big room. I was panicking, and they calmly told me that the name 'America'… would be the only thing I needed to know. And it's… all a blank after that. They put me in this… this double chamber, me and Germany – "

Matthew needed to correct, "Ludwig" because it felt right.

"L-Ludwig, sorry. And it put me to sleep, and I woke up in my bed here in the station, my memory completely shot." He looked to his brother. "I think I had fake memories, something like that, who knew how they got there? 'cause I simply went about that day as normal, just feeling a little blank. It must have been like that for all of us…" He pleaded, "Do you know? Do you know anything that happened between what I've said? Did I leave anything out? What don't I know? Did -"

"Alfred, please. Calm… calm down." His brother's eyes, already bloodshot, and started to appear dilated with excitement. He'd started to rise up on his bed, desperate for more information. Kindly, Matthew reached out and eased him back into the bed. Who knew what his condition was? Too much movement, too much external stimulant, and he could be reverted to his delusional, burning state he was in previous. He felt like ending the conversation just to prevent that, because that was the last thing he wanted. Ever. He shivered, the living nightmare still playing him like a puppet.

"Mattie, you know something, don't you?" Alfred accused suddenly, his voice breaking through the silence and his brother's internal worries.

He paused, thinking he'd heard wrong. Wished he'd heard wrong. "How did you – "

"Like a light, Mattie, like a light."

Matthew glared at him disapprovingly. He didn't want to join in the story. It was like… he'd be reading out of his own history book. A part of his past that he'd engraved impartially, as if he hadn't even been there. It was easier that way. He never thought about it. If he was forced to dictate it vocally, though… he wasn't sure how impartial he could make it sound. The truth was mixing in with his memories, making a bitter concoction.

But Alfred was looking at him so openly curious. Alfred needed these pieces to their puzzle. And Matthew…

And Matthew always shared his toys.

"Well… the two of you – you and Ludwig – seemed…" Matthew swallowed. "Seemed to… I guess, lose your personalities. You never… left, you never went anywhere, as you made it sound. You just went about your lives, but without your personalities. That might be after you were put in that chamber, even. You became…"

"Zombies!" Alfred suddenly looked appalled. "We were freakin' zombies!" he shouted.

Matthew winced. "Robots. I was going to say robots."

"They turned us into robots," Alfred groaned, putting his hands over his eyes in shame.

"…It gets worse," Matthew mumbled.

Alfred looked at him with expectant agony.

Matthew continued, "And what the two of you would do, as you went around… robotically, as it was, you'd… well, get to know someone, basically, and within the space of a day… that person would disappear. We'd ask you, 'Hey, were did so-and-so go?' and neither of you would ever reply. Then you'd attach to someone else, and they'd disappear. Then another person, and mysteriously, they'd disappear."

"We must have been bringing them to those chambers," Alfred realized, staring blankly up at the ceiling. "Programmed us to take everyone else…" Bricks and bricks of remorse were weighing him down into the sheets.

"They'd never come back," Matthew noted. "You'd always come back."

Alfred acknowledged him with nothing more than an "Mmm" sound, turning his head side to side.

Matthew clutched his fingers into twin fists. He rested them on his thighs, fighting against every reflex in his body that was telling him to stop. He was basically digging his brother into his grave, throwing blame and fault onto him for good measure. He wasn't meaning to. It was just how the facts played out.

He was more impartial than he thought.

"Now that I look at it, the only people you'd… 'take' were the ones who are here, in the station."

This observation seemed to make Alfred feel better. But only a little bit. "So we weren't killing them," he said quietly to himself. Then he turned to his brother, indicating him to continue, despite how much it hurt both of them.

"So you were helping them, I guess. But if you looked at it from my perspective, back then, I really worried that the two of you had become some sort of… duo, ridding the world of everyone we knew."

"Everyone we knew turned out to be the ones with the best traits," Alfred interrupted, "which is why they were chosen for the station.

"Sorry," Alfred added, noticing how Matthew appeared uncomfortable with his monotone, grave ramblings. "Go on."

Matthew cleared his throat. "The police never did anything. Thought I was crazy. Honestly, I thought I was crazy…"

"You tried to turn me in?" Despite the context, Alfred found that very insulting. And a bit amusing.

"You – We – I –"

Alfred shook his head. "Good idea, bro. Nice move. But they probably were under the same influence I was. Never would have happened otherwise, if the police hadn't been taken care of."

It made sense. Too much sense. Whoever was at the head of all this had really thought of everything.

"…it was like you were jumping from prey to prey to prey," he mumbled then, despite that being the one sentence he'd swore to never utter.

Alfred was as white as the sheets around him. "What?"

"I…" Matthew looked down. The phrase had been one that had swirled in his head, insensitively, during the confusing period when he'd thought his brother was a serial killer. Person to person. Prey to prey. Like a leech. He was in constant trepidation of when he'd be next. "Nothing."

"Nothing, huh," Alfred reiterated, trying to sound trivial. Trying to appear as if wasn't absolutely appalled that his sibling had thought of him as a monster. But his face just wouldn't get back to its default and his body just wouldn't stay still. There was something gnawing on his mind… "Hey, Matthew?" he inquired quietly.

"Hm?"

"When… Who… When did we get you?" He gnawed on his lip, then rubbed the area with his fingers. "If ya don't mind me askin'."

A pang splintered throughout his head, brought on the mention of a past trauma. He closed his eyes tight, pretending to have trouble remembering, but really, he was having trouble forgetting. "Um… Gilbert and I were the last ones you and Ludwig got to." Got to. He made it sound as if it was just a game of tag. Or more like freeze tag.

Freeze tag. He was still frozen.

Despite his inner, debilitating sorrow, Alfred couldn't help smiling. "Gilbert… that's your boyfriend, right?"

"Of course." He flushed at how vibrantly and enthusiastically he replied. He didn't like Alfred's wolf grin, either. "Right… But… You guys found us last. Which is ironic. You wouldn't expect that the people closest to you would be the last ones you'd go for, right? Heh… Um… You never took us anywhere, really. You… ch-chased us for a while and then… and then a big white light came over us and then we were here. …In the station. You know, sort of."

No answer. Nothing registered on Alfred's face to prove that he even heard him.

"I… guess…" Matthew tried to stammer something impossible. Start one of them talking again. It was odd that, before, he'd wanted anything other than to start the conversation, and now all he wanted to do was keep it going.

Silence.

"I… don't know," Matthew mumbled, finally.

"G… Gah!" Alfred seemed to explode. Outward, everywhere, within. "I can't… I can't…"

"Can't?" Matthew repeated. His mind went wild, flashing back to when Alfred was thrashing and delirious and screaming out things about fire and places like hell. He put his hand on Alfred's forehead – Alfred threw it off.

"So it _is_ all my fault," said Alfred, making more sense now that words were coming back to him. He clenched his fists, pressing them tightly to his temples before slamming them against the mattress. He struggled and turned, seeming claustrophobic in his clothing. "Damn it! Damn it! Damn –"

"Alfred!" Matthew was up, standing shakily. "Alfred, no. It's _definitely_ not your fault! You're – you're part of the solution. You can… you can fix this, Alfred!" he begged. "Please don't blame yourself…" He collapsed back into his chair, weary, beseeching his brother with only his tired eyes. He hadn't the proper amount of sleep the night before. Sleep. Why was he thinking about sleep? He rubbed his hands over his forehead.

Alfred grimaced, his face making unnatural movements, all representing emotions too complex for Matthew to name. He almost looked like he was going to cry, but that… that was insane. Alfred had never cried. Never!

"Alfred… please," he said, one more time, from behind his hands.

Alfred looked to him, eyes wet and shining. "Mattie… you're always so good to me… what would I ever do without you?"

Matthew chuckled.

A wonderful performance. The narrator walked offstage. He'd brought the audience to tears.


	31. chapter thirty

**CHAPTER THIRTY**: (four puts everything in motion and the plan is made)

"We need to… we need to… take them down," Alfred decided, abandoning the comfortable silence they'd adopted. His strong resolve, along with the pure passion in his words, awoke Matthew from his tranquil reverie and shattered the bubble he'd put himself in. The air stiffened with him.

"Who?" Matthew queried, weary, sniffing away his sorrow and laying his hands on his thighs. He looked around the room when his eye contact was sought.

"The Superiors," Alfred supplied, critical of his brother's awkward disposition. He clicked his tongue and dug further into the mattress. "They're the previous world leaders, ya know."

"I hadn't known… wow." Matthew blinked, and then he blinked again – the last piece of the puzzle had finally been dropped into place.

Was there anything else he was missing? He smiled a bit. He thought – no, he _hoped_ not.

But he did have one lingering thing.

"Alfred?"

"Mmm?"

"Ludwig said Gilbert was giving us a disease, and that it wasn't real memories – not that I believe him, but – that's not true, right? That couldn't possibly be true, right?" He smiled nervously, trying not to seem too gullible.

Alfred turned his head to him. "He said that?"

"Yeah. I-It's not true, right?" he reiterated, the corners of his lips falling at his brother's hesitancy.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, no, no…" His voice was a little too off-key.

Matthew stilled, his eyes turning into suspicious slits. "…If you're lying to me…"

"Ludwig's just – Ludwig's just messed up," Alfred said. "He was _completely_ convinced by the leaders that what they did would help the world, and I guess when he saw that it just made everything _worse_… he just needed something or someone to blame." He shrugged. "Intelligent one he is to think of such a lie, but…"

He was glad to get that over with, but for some reason, his lips began to shake. Matthew redirected, "How are we going to take them down?"

Alfred had a plan, forming like a map in his mind. "Once everyone gets their memory back…" he started.


	32. chapter thirtyone

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**: (zero succumbs to contentment and five is lost)

Alfred was insane, Matthew decided. That was the only conclusion. He was off-his-rocker _insane_.

He left the infirmary, hours, hours after he'd arrived, the door clicking in a final, sentimental moment. He sighed, the tips of a smile threating. Oh, Alfred. There was no chance the plan was going to work, despite how ingenious it sounded, how excitedly Alfred had explained.

Matthew had been given a day to sleep it over, just a pleasantry. Alfred was being kind to him; too bad Matthew already knew he was going to vote against it.

(He also had to tell Ludwig and Gilbert about the plan, because Alfred had additionally, no, _mindlessly_, included them in his plan without their consent. Oh, that would blow over so well.)

He was more lucid when he walked down the hallways that time. His mind was not awash with worry, concern, confusion nor heat. He was floating on clouds; he actually knew where he was going. He had a pretty clear idea where Ludwig's office was. And he was in no rush.

Lightly, he trailed his fingers against the walls, making little circles and little lines. Feeling like that fairy-tale character who left bread crumbs leaving the safety of his home (or was it a her? neither? both?), everything was nice and cool. He was at peace, now that he knew everything that was happening in his quaint little life – no bewilderment, no questions left.

All he had to do was make a new plan to work over Alfred's, and everything'd be fine…

He'd be alright. He'd be alright!

It was like a sun had finally broken through his rainy day.

Matthew actually began to hum. What the song was, he didn't know – but his dad had sung it to him so many times before, in French. The words escaped him. He realized he hadn't spoken French in so long.

Humming, humming, humming, he continued down the hallway, finally turning down the corridor where Ludwig's office was. The door was wide open. He paused.

There were fast words being spoken inside. Thelight that cascaded into the hallway played out a wicked puppet show. The shadows were morphed people; one was standing, barely moving. Another was kneeling, touching something on the floor. Matthew blinked, a trickle of unease infecting his happiness.

Someone's voice broke.

He stopped his smiling. Idiot. Idiot! It'd been _foolish_ of him to indulge in childish innocence. (Fairy-tales? Fairy-tales, really?)

He dashed into the room, breaking a barrier. "What's going – _Gilbert_!"

A mass of limbs and skin on the floor, Gilbert rolled toward him. "Oh – oh hey, Matt…"

Matthew stared frantically at Ludwig, who was standing beside his brother. His arms were frozen branches.

"What happened?" Matthew asked, breathless.

"He just – he just passed out," Ludwig cried. He took a step, shakily. He stumbled backward and had to rely on his desk for support, the polar opposite of his normal strong demeanor. A few things fell over, their collective clattering the only sound in the room. Until Ludwig, quietly, continued, "And when he woke up he was… he was…" His hand motioned vaguely. "…like this!"

There was another being in the room, hovering over Gilbert's form. "I – I don't know what this is," said the figure, on their knees. Their head was shaking, slowly, back and forth, back and forth, the unmelodious ticking of a grandfather clock.

"Vash," Matthew exclaimed.

Vash turned his neck around. He looked so scared. "I really don't know what's going on with him. His temperature is exceeding normal, and his breathing is compromised; but his heart rate is calm and the pupils haven't…" He faded off. He was torn between being scared for his human patient, and being curious, as a doctor. He wanted to dissect this, examine it. But he couldn't when it still talked to him.

Gilbert spoke like a ghost; though so soft, he stopped the beating of Matthew's heart. (Again.) "Mattie knows what this is." His eyebrows rose, as if pulled by strings. Painful strings, slick with sweat.

Matthew's extremities turned to ice. He pleaded that he didn't. No, no, please, he doesn't know; not now, not now…

Vash looked between them, very animated. His gaze lingered no more than for a few seconds between them before he landed on Matthew. Hard. "Matthew, is this true?" He turned slightly toward the visitor in the doorway; but he still held a restricted hand, gesticulating toward Gilbert's form. "I'm – I'm not sure if Gilbert is experiencing hallucinations or a loss of reality, I don't know anything, really; I wouldn't put it past him at this moment to be experiencing any type of symptom, mental or otherwise. He could just be speaking gibberish. Do you understand what he's talking about?"

Gilbert cockily grinned. A laugh tried to swim up in his throat but it drowned halfway up. He moved his bloody, bloody hands up and clasped them in front of his chest, making a small heart with his lanky fingers. Then he passed out.

"Matthew!" Vash screamed.

Matthew was going to be alright.

But Gilbert wasn't.


	33. chapter thirtytwo

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**: (fate catches up and stormy skies)

"It's – it's the Terror, isn't it?" Matthew said under his breath, eyes suddenly as dark as the room and its atmosphere. His shoulders were slack. All hope drained out of him like poison, leaving behind a bitter detoxing process.

"What?" inquired Vash, his voice cracking like glass. He stared at Gilbert, trying to piece together the puzzle of his diagnosis.

Gilbert was coming to. He began to laugh. Vash blinked at him. Gilbert's hands tried to grip the carpet, but it was too thin and him too shaky so he simply dug his fingers into his palm.

Matthew was glad that Vash's medical background wasn't fake, nor manufactured. The way he moved and how he spoke clearly demonstrated a medical training somewhere in his past. Whether it had been scholarly or dictated by the Superiors, it was something. Especially now.

Vash might just be able to save Gilbert from disintegration.

"Vash, his – his soul, th-the Terror, was destroyed a while ago – so now his body's… _going_. Can you stop this?"

Vash jumped. That's what he'd feared when Matthew had mumbled that evil seven letter word: _disintegration_. To have his suspicions confirmed was body-encompassing experience. His brain lit up with ideas, illuminating his eyes. His hands, terrified, moved away from his patient, so quickly; as if the situation was contagious. In a murmur he emitted things that not even he could understand.

The illiterate mutterings made Matthew more afraid. He solicited, "I know it's confusing, Vash, but is there anything you can do?"

Vash started to shake; Ludwig had been paralyzed the second Matthew had entered, his eyes trained on his brother's body.

"_Anything_?"

Vash swallowed a mass of discomfort. "I think we can – " He stopped. Stared at Matthew, jaw slack, his eyes coldly calculating. He gripped his hand in the fabric of his lab coat and looked away.

"Think we can what?" He'd tried his best to let nothing relative to excitement enter his voice, but his guards were down.

"Think…" He shook his head. "From what I know… all we can do is monitor him." His voice had taken on a professional air, completely disconnected.

Matthew's eyes flickered. He had just seen something – seen something in Vash. It had been something like his childish hope from earlier. Where – where had it gone? – was it – had –

"If we get everything back to normal," Matthew suddenly spat; his attempts at chasing Vash's hope had fallen him into a hole. He stared at the dark walls, confused how he got there; "do you think he has a chance?" That glimmer of hope was still in his voice. He'd have to get a better extinguisher other than his thoughts.

For a moment, Vash had to think over what Matthew referred to by 'normal'. Was normal Gilbert being awake? Yes, wait, no – yes _and_ no. Gilbert had to be awake and _not_ sick for things to be normal. Awake and alive. Okay. Vash could do that. And he smiled just a bit. "It seems – plausible, yes." Little gears were rolling about in his head, slick and fine; he had an inkling that he thought might come in handy. But he kept it hidden under his hair.

Losing his fear, Matthew finally ran and fell to Gilbert's side. He took the pale, bloody hand and held it to his chest, right over his own beating heart. "See? You shouldn't have talked so morbidly before – we're going to get you better. Better, imagine?" He hiccuped and pressed his forehead to Gilbert's. Tears fell from his face onto Gilbert's ratty shirt.

The rain was back.


	34. chapter thirtythree

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE**: (the doctor is unwilling and an unexpected guest)

Vash used his infamous needle on Gilbert. So presently the dying man was lying in the bed his younger brother had been in before. He took on the same fashion: passed out and as docile as stone.

Alfred was well enough to walk about the room. He paced incessantly, happy to feel the blood coursing through his veins and the feeling, the feeling in his body! He was alive, cool, and working well.

"This really sucks, Mattie," Alfred mumbled, his words opposite to his inner feelings of glee. (How could he be happy when Matthew was so obviously troubled?) "Gilbert was a key part to our plan – how are we going to work around this?" He rubbed his lips, thinking.

Matthew sniffed. "I don't know." He had given up on thinking of his own plan. Alfred's was just crazy enough to work. He threw reason to the wind, willing to try anything at the moment. He ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the floor.

Tapping the counter, Vash didn't want to be involved.

"…I guess something good does come from this," Alfred considered, lightly; "I mean, now I know that we need to get our souls back before we can go through with our plan," he tried. "Who knows how long _we_ have left?" It was really worthwhile information, even if it came at a price.

Matthew said quickly, "We can do it at the same time." He raised his head, trying to meet his brother's eyes but Alfred kept pacing.

"Huh?"

He spread his fingers throughout the air, imagining a landscape. He watched Gilbert's chest from between them, critical of the rise-and-fall of his breathing. "Go through the Terror's territory, find our souls, and then go straight to the HQ," he explained blandly. His own breaths came in sync with Gilbert's; surely he'd stop breathing if Gilbert did.

Alfred pattered around in his thoughts for a moment, letting a brief and calm silence settle their emotions. Matthew's hands fell back into his lap.

"I guess…" Alfred considered; "But we might get really weak if…" He kept talking.

Matthew nodded, not listening. He had already decided that that was what they were going to do, never mind anything else. It was the only thing they could think of that gave them a quick, speedy run. If they wanted to get their souls and then come back to HQ to recover, it would be time wasted. The last thing they had at their disposal was time.

"I do _not_ want anything to do with this," Vash insisted highly, interrupting Alfred. (Maybe no one had been listening to him.) He adjusted the mirror behind the sink. His eyebrows were crinkled, staring beyond his reflection at the form on the bed. Words and equations popped up, handwritten as if by chalk on a board. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was all gone.

Alfred glanced at the doctor, his face contorted in bewilderment and maybe a little annoyance. But he shook it off, stopping to stand next to his brother. He put his hand on the back of the chair for support. Maybe he wasn't as strong as he'd convinced himself. His breaths were hot, quick. He looked to the ceiling and spoke between his distress. "Um – you told Ludwig, right Matt?"

"Yeah." Matthew slowly shook his head. It had not been a pleasant conversation. Ludwig had many, many questions, many concerns.

Vash flicked the mirror. The sound echoed throughout the room; they stared at him.

Vash said sourly, "But I was there to overhear it; Matthew wouldn't wait for me to leave the room." He was only stuck in the room now because Matthew wouldn't let him leave Gilbert's side. "So now I'm tangled in all this secrecy; _great_." He rolled his eyes.

They ignored him quite royally. "When are we going to do it?" Alfred asked, languid. He was breathing better. He was fine. He looked at the top of his brother's head, with a small little smile.

Matthew decided, "Tomorrow."

Vash looked over his shoulder at them, easygoing. "Good – I'm busy tomorrow."

Alfred choked on air. "Tomar – no! We can't do it _tomorrow_!" He paced back to the opposite side of the room. He needed to see Matthew's expression, those eyes. Even if it was blurry, it reassured him. He couldn't stop himself from adding in disbelief, "Are you _crazy_?"

Matthew was silent for a moment. His expression, as far as Alfred could tell, never changed. "I guess you're right… Tomorrow's not good. Fine."

"Fine," Alfred responded, like they were children again, resorting to copying the other when no other words came to them. "Then when?" he asked. He wasn't sure if he should be getting Matthew's opinion, since it seemed so skewed, but he needed a ballpark of dates that he could choose from. A day far away…

Matthew had his lips pressed tight. It didn't look like he was going to respond. He seemed nervous, but resolute. "Tonight," he finally said.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes blurred to everything.

"I'm busy tonight, too," Vash put in, turning around. He looked at his fingers. He never tired of examining the scars caused by his career. At the silence, he glanced up to the brothers. Alfred was frozen in a wide-mouthed expression; and Matthew was looking at the ground, cheeks colored and eyes moving. This seemed to be a fight. If not a fight, than an argument, an impasse. He wondered how this would play out. His own 'disputes' with his sister were different than this…

Alfred's voice was soft. "Tonight?" He blinked. "Are you serious?" He groaned. "You are serious… Matthew, that's even more insane! Matthew! Listen to me!" He put his hands in the air to accent each syllable. "We need. More. Time!"

"We don't have time!" Matthew was screaming.

Vash actually jumped, his surprise obvious. Alfred seemed to be expecting the outburst, however, (could he have seen the rage boiling with his failing eyesight?) and clenched his teeth. He was solid, silent; opposite to Matthew, who became very animated.

Matthew stood, the chair sliding back in terror. His face was red, his eyes gleaming. His hands were throbbing fists, held at his sides. "There is no time! Trust me, Alfred, if we had time I'd use it! You know that! I want this to go smoothly and I don't want anyone to get hurt… It's the last thing I want… But…" He couldn't stop his last, haunting exclamation. "We have to save Gilbert!"

The door slid across the floor, breaking their discourse like a rock into the ocean. "Oh," said a voice, darkly, weighed down immeasurably; "Guess I'm too late then."

Matthew spun around. "Roderich," he emitted, sounding regretful.

Roderich looked painfully at him. He tried to smile, but it failed. "Yeah – hi. I heard Gilbert was feeling… rather under the weather recently. I wanted to check up on him… But… but apparently his life's in danger?" The worry in his voice was translucently disguised.

Matthew put his fingers on his mouth, as if he could take back the words he'd spoken. He glanced at Alfred. Their argument was long forgotten; they schemed together, with just a look.

Alfred nodded, understanding. A lie. They needed a lie. He tried, "He, um…" He wasn't as fast as he normally was. "…hit his head."

"So you have to… save him from what, exactly?" Roderich asked, dubious.

"He – he's out cold and so we need to save him from… infection!"

It didn't convince him.

Roderich ran a tense hand through his hair, his eyes, tender, on Gilbert.

There was a lack of color to Roderich's skin, Vash noticed, simply medically. More words appeared in the air, explaining what a lack of color could mean.

"I thought that's what _I_ was here for," Vash mumbled, "to keep him from getting sick! Why the heck am I here if you guys are going to do it?" He saw through Alfred's lie but he felt rather put-out, a bit disgusted. He didn't want to think about the lack of color on anyone's faces. He stared pointedly at Matthew, trying not to falter.

Matthew thought the outburst insane.

But Roderich had a different idea. His posture improved a bit and he changed his gaze to look at the doctor quizzically. "What's up with him?" he asked the brothers, still staring at his friend.

Vash stared him back evenly, though his heart began to sink. He gripped the counter, every fiber in his being telling him to say something but his lips remained glued.

"Ignore him," Alfred sighed, moving to sit in the lonely chair Matthew had abandoned. Matthew moved to the side in accordance. "He's been going _on_ and _on_ like that all day. 'I don't want to do this, I don't want to do that.' Jeeze, you think as a doctor he'd…" Again, Alfred kept talking, but no one paid him any mind.

Matthew watched as Roderich tipped his head, and Vash suddenly paled. Their eyes clicked. Memories connected a string from one to the other.

Roderich finally managed a smile, and Vash, in response, grimaced. Vash mouthed, "_Don't you dare!_"

Matthew looked away. Silence overcame them, Alfred hushed, the atmosphere affecting even him.

Gilbert did not move. Matthew stared at him.

"How are we going to get through without him?" he whispered to himself.


	35. chapter thirtyfour

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR**: (the doctor is ratted out and zero can't wait)

Roderich made a noise of self-assurance. He pointed confidently to Vash. "He wants to help," said he, his grin indictable. He almost appeared happier, lighter to be making such a declaration. He stood up straighter, keeping his finger lingering in the air until Vash swat it aside.

Vash swallowed. He wondered if it was all just a dream and Roderich wasn't really trying to cause a scene. His heartbeat steadily picked up; it pinched his temples and teased his ribs. He put a hand to his chest, and balled it into a fist. "I—" He tried again, his voice not satisfying. "You—"

"Yeah, right." Alfred rolled his eyes, staring at the opposite wall. He tapped his foot impatiently. "He won't stop talking about how much he _doesn't_ want to help, so of _course_ he wants to." He continued to mutter about psychology.

Roderich's smile didn't falter. Maybe it widened. "Exactly," he affirmed, under a laugh. "He's too narcissistic to volunteer—he wants _you_ to want _him_!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Vash exclaimed before he could stop himself, his words steadfast and unsure, trampling across their discourse like a stallion. He pushed at Roderich, like a child would.

Instantly, he regretted it. They hadn't had an honest conversation for _years_. Was their intimacy really back to normal? Was the simple fact that they were in the same room changing things? It couldn't be. It was all happening too fast. Vash sealed his expression, however, not wanting anyone to read into his eyes.

But Roderich softly laughed at him, half-heartedly giving him a shove back. He didn't seem to have any qualms, despite the lingering worry for Gilbert that drained the color from his face. Other than that, he seemed perfectly fine.

Matthew looked from one to the other, remembering the close bond they had shared so long before. He could almost see it hang tangibly in the air between them. It was just possible that Roderich knew Vash better than anyone else… "Vash," he stated resolutely, staring at the doctor, "if you really think you can be of help, we need you."

Alfred looked up.

"We honestly need you," he repeated, letting just enough true emotion slip through.

Vash glanced at Matthew, unsure. But when he heard Roderich clear his throat very obviously, he glared at him. It reassured him somewhat. He replied, "I—I heard what you needed Gilbert to do." He looked to the ground. He tapped the heel of his shoe to the side of his other foot. "And I think I could manage it just as easily, if I do say so myself."

A smile, if weak, broke Matthew's frown. "We'd appreciate it."

Vash rolled his eyes, as if they were forcing him to cooperate. "Yeah—fine. Whatever."

"Told you," Roderich said to Alfred. With his own smile, Roderich mumbled through the corner of his lips to his friend, "That's what you get for making me buy you lunch earlier."

"Oh, shove it!"

After long hours of stressed conversation, Roderich and Vash took their leave. Roderich was saying something about Vash buying him dinner to pay him back; Vash was saying something about once in a blue moon.

Alfred mumbled to himself against the sudden silence, "How do you break bad news to your brother…?" He traced figures in the ceiling with his eyes.

"What, Al?" Matthew demanded, a covered hysteria rising in his voice. He really didn't need any more bad news.

Alfred sighed. He reached out, placing a hand on the other's shoulder. "Gilbert isn't the main point of this operation. We have to execute it carefully or it'll all fall apart. We only have one chance. I know this is hard for you—Gilbert's your life, after all—but you've got to see it my way. We _can't_ rush it. We just _can't_."

Matthew actually appeared to be listening to him. Eyes clouded, he grumbled, "Tomorrow it is, then?"

Alfred pressed his eyebrows together in sympathy. His hand fell. "…Yeah; sure. Why not? It's not like the fate of the rest of history depends on this, pfft, what…"


	36. chapter thirtyfive

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**: (four is insistent and they're not alone)

"Wait, wouldn't we need to get everyone else's memory back before we did this?" Alfred cried, following his brother down a desolate hallway at the back of the station. He needed his sibling to reconsider; for once in their lives, Matthew wasn't listening to reason.

"…I really don't see how it's relevant," Matthew murmured, finally coming to a stop; he had tired of his brother following him.

Alfred stood behind him. "We need everyone's support," he said honestly. "We need them to follow us—like an army. Wouldn't that be more useful than going off on our own?"

"Ludwig's good with armies… we can get him to persuade them to follow us blindly. He does have the authority, too…" Matthew said off-handedly.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Nice try, Matt, but you know that ain't gonna fly."

"I know," he confessed finally. Matthew flexed his fingers. "I'm—I'm kind of conflicted right now, Al. You're really not helping," he muttered in irritation.

"That's what I'm telling you!" Alfred spread his hands out. "You need time—time's all ya really need!" he exclaimed.

His face twitched. Matthew finally turned around to face Alfred, but had considerably more trouble meeting his eyes. "We've got someone to fill Gilbert's place, right? And, don't you think that the least amount of people who know about this the better? Anyone could be a traitor."

He frowned. All of his ideas and ethnics turned to dust. "I hadn't… thought about that, actually…" He had been more willing to trust in everyone's deep-rooted sense of nationalism, a sense that would bring them together in the most patriotic of unions.

Matthew's resolve settled in himself, letting him tell Alfred with a smooth tone: "So I think I'm in the right here."

Alfred was reluctant to admit it, grasping at straws to find some reason to give them more time. "But at least—but at least can we have a formal meeting about it, with all the people involved, just so we're clear?"

"Of course," Matthew sighed. It was actually a pretty good idea, if it pushed back the plan a day or two… "I know a place. If you… meet me at my room, I can lead you somewhere safe. But not before eleven PM, you've got that? That's the time my Monitor deactivates."

He allowed a small smile. "Alright… mine goes off at two AM, since I'm such a night owl, but… but if I don't go back, it won't know I'm gone, right?"

He could tell how faulty the logic was, though Alfred couldn't. "I guess…"

"Good. Okay." His excitement was growing. "I'll get Dr. Narcissist and… Ludwig?" he added uncertainly.

Matthew considered, "Ludwig's going to watch over Gilbert instead of coming with us, and we do need him to cover up our absence. So yes, him too."

Alfred grinned. "Alrighty then! Off I go! See ya, Matt!" And Alfred sped down the hallway, though he had hours to spare.

Matthew let out a deep breath, moving in the opposite direction to get to his room with figurative storm clouds about his head.

In the empty hallway behind him, a long string of clicking noises ensued.

"_Processing… processing… processing… Interaction recorded. Participants recognized: America, Alfred; Canada, Matthew. Participants absent but received: Germany, Ludwig; Prussia, Gilbert. Saving… saving… Saving complete. Processing… sent._"

The Monitor went back to invisible mode, fading into the wallpaper and beeping silently.


	37. chapter thirtysix

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX**: (a meeting between all those involved)

It was the room that Gilbert had first taken him to. Matthew was a bit upset about having to use it again, because all of the countless meetings they'd shared together just wouldn't leave him, but it was the only place safe enough and completely undiscovered. The memories radiated off the walls, huddled in corners, seeping from the ceiling. He couldn't escape them, Matthew knew. He never could. He made himself still, suffocating within them.

The light bulb had died recently, so the four of them were relying on the luminescence of the crack under the door. Perpetually, they were staring at each other through a pavement of darkness. It almost seemed to fit their moods. They didn't want to see each other's faces, afraid of what they'd see revealed there.

Matthew knew he was in his usual chair; he knew Alfred was sitting in Gilbert's stool (curse it all); Ludwig was hovering a few feet from Matthew's left, leaning against the wall; and Vash was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the door, the suspicious one he was. The others would only have a profile view of Vash if they could even see him, his fingers moving in the darkness like spiders, itching for something in his hands.

Alfred was sagging from fatigue, despite the fact he had claimed to stay up all hours. "Um—so is that it?" he asked through a yawn. "We covered everything, right? I think it's like… one in the morning, now; we've talked _a lot_… There shouldn't be much—"

Ludwig shifted. Something had been weighing him down all night, something he was hesitant to bring up. But he couldn't leave it unsaid. "What are we going to do if something goes wrong?" he blurted.

Matthew looked toward the higher officer's general direction. He fancied himself in thinking he was meeting Ludwig's eyes. "Simple," Matthew decided, all emotion null and void. "You are to pretend that we never existed. Get those with memories under control; tell them the truth. Alfred, Vash and I would probably be dead, and as for Gilb—"

"Hey, hey, hey," piped the voice on the floor. His voice was rotten, thick from disuse. He had barely spoken a word all night, and suddenly all of his emotions made him speak in a torrent: "I won't be dying! You wouldn't have given _Gilbert_ a role that had a danger of being fatal, _right_?" Vash seemed to be convincing himself rather than the officers. He waited for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And from what you've said, there's no danger for me. No danger at all."

Matthew winced at Gilbert's name; he knew Vash had put it in there intentionally, just for harm, malware in the middle of an operating system, something that was surefire to kill. "We didn't give Gilbert a fatal role," he agreed, slightly shaky, but determined otherwise not to show it. "You won't be dying, if everything goes according to plan. But Vash… you'll still be in the HQ—they'll probably find you _first, _if they find any of us at all."

"They'll never find me," he mumbled determinedly, overshadowing the last of Matthew's attempts to elucidate him.

The doctor didn't know how wrong he was. They had just found someone else to take his place. Stolen from their bed in the middle of the night, Vash was left none the wiser. He continued to rock on his heels, a ticking mantra of things he couldn't possibly know.


	38. chapter thirtyseven

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN**: (zero sets out and five's famous last words)

Three days later, Matthew was sitting at Gilbert's bedside. He was wearing his uniform, his last goodbye to this place. He had his own war beginning, somewhere in lands unknown. He stared at the floor, distracted by the simplicity of the tile. Would he ever walk on these floors again? Did he even want to? He sighed, looking at the bed beside him. He placed his fingers lightly on the slumbering man's forehead, imagining nights from lifetimes ago, and was surprised when it roused him from sleep. Delightfully surprised. It was the first thing to go right yet.

"Nnghh…"

Matthew started, absolutely trembling with pleasure. "Gil? You're awake!" He smiled, fast, his plans falling forgotten like icicles from a schoolhouse. His primary concern had just awoken! Nothing else mattered. "I'll—I'll get Vash!" he decided. "He can help you, I know he—"

"He already…" Gilbert swallowed the sentence and tried again. His voice was soft, but dirty with disuse. "No, wait, don't leave…" Gilbert's hand rose above the bed, a phantom in the night. "I need to… to talk to you. Matthew."

Matthew froze, his feet toward the doorway. How could he leave when he was so needed? He closed his eyes and took a breath, craving to listen to the one he loved.

(It didn't stop him from sending mental messages to Vash, praying for the doctor to arrive.)

Nothing was said for quite a while despite Gilbert's request for words, so Matthew spoke: "What is it? What do you need to tell me?" His voice was as dark as the death that lingered in the room. They're not Gilbert's final words to him, Matthew convinced himself. They're not.

"Matt… You can't fight this…" Gilbert cleared his throat, clearing the room of all pretenses. The next statement sent electricity through his blood; "Let me go…" His words seemed stamped with tears, punctuated with sobs. But Gilbert managed to keep his voice absolutely still, emotionless.

The words weren't Gilbert's, Matthew was sure, frantically looking around the room. Some sort of effect of his illness. Hadn't Vash mentioned something of delirium? Yes, right. Delirium.

"Ha… You don't understand what you're saying!" Matthew managed a laugh, trying to force joviality into the atmosphere. "Save your voice, please, let me—" He stood, intending to run, sprint, prance for help, but shaking fingers caught his wrist. Dried blood pressed against his skin.

Gilbert's dull red eyes scanned him over, milky, trying to see through Matthew. "…You're going to the Superior's HQ, I assume?"

The wind was knocked out of him. What a thing to assume! Forgetting the fact that it was true, it wasn't something he expected—barely wanted—Gilbert to know. He turned to finally look into Gilbert's eyes, trying to calculate his reasoning. "How did you—"

"I was thinking along the same thing earlier." A smirk. Gilbert passed his fingers over Matthew's pulse on his wrist before dropping his hand. "But I could tell from the fire in your eyes. And the fact that I was semi-conscious when you and Alfred told everyone else." He chuckled, and Matthew spared him a tiny smirk. "You're going to save everyone now, aren't you; gonna be a hero?"

The tone was indecipherable. Matthew felt a chill go through him, but he couldn't tell what Gilbert meant. Gilbert's mouth was frozen in an odd half-grin, his eyes lazily tracing every contour of Matthew's face. "N—no," Matthew stammered. "I just don't want you to—"

"This isn't about me; I've told you, hon. I've told you I've told you I've told you." With a sort of listless aura radiating from his repetition, he sprawled over to his other side. Blankets fell from his feet, and his fever began to spike. "Make me proud, uh? I feel like sucha wimp for… ah… fallin' sick on the… on the job." He reached out, blindly, at the side table. There was a clear bottle and a syringe sitting beside him that Matthew hadn't been aware of before. Gilbert seemed desperate for it, but his fingers would not listen to his mind, touching the wood but never brushing the treasure.

"You're not a wimp," Matthew said firmly. He wanted to give a reassuring touch, but he didn't know what to do. Tears began to blur his vision, and he swallowed thickly. He stared at the bottle Gilbert wanted so badly with a childish confusion. "And what is that you're—?"

"But Vash's gonna do it, huh?" Gilbert interrupted. "That's what I heard. Heh. He's going to take my part?" Gilbert spoke to the opposite wall, refusing to turn toward Matthew again, as his need for that greyish-purple liquid grew. "Well, you'd best keep an eye on him—he's a mysterious one. You'll never know when he'll talk about being neutral again," Gilbert spat.

Matthew's throat constricted. He hadn't thought that over. He started to cry, not that he knew it. The pressure that had been hovering around his head finally crashed onto his shoulders, weighing him down, back into the muck. How could he save Gilbert? How could he save anyone? He couldn't go through with Alfred's plan if the threat of failure was always nipping at his shoes. He couldn't move. Couldn't—

Gilbert's fingers brushed the bottle. A spark ignited at the touch. But when he heard the quiet whimpers, the subconscious sobs from behind him, his intentions paused and he slowly rolled back around. His eyes turned to cotton. "Mattie… Mattie." He licked his lips, remembering himself. "…Please don't cry… I—I don't mean to be so… _harsh_. It must be a side-effect of…" He shook his head. He'd been trying not to think of it; _think of nothing at all._ "I jus' don' know what's goin' on, to tell you the truth. I thought I did, but I don't." He smiled, softer this time, a painful facsimile of his old self. "Just… stay safe and save the world, mmkay?

"Here, stop crying." Gilbert turned back to that side table. He ignored the bottle, however, and opened the drawer. He pulled out a little black box that Matthew could never mistake.

Matthew's weeping turned into light laughter. The ring, their ring, _his_ ring, was brought into the light, and nothing had ever looked so magnificent.

"Take it with you. For good luck." Gilbert managed, quivering, to place his weight on his elbows. He took Matthew's hand, slipped in on his finger, then kissed it. "No more tears, okay? It's bad enough I can't go with you; I don't want to see any tears before you go. This is my last image of you." Before Matthew could protest the statement, he squeezed his hand. "Make sure Alfred doesn't screw up, and save the world," he repeated.

"For you," Matthew allowed, teeth chattering against one another for one final time before he managed to set his jaw straight. His nerves tensed, his muscles contracted. Blood began to flow like a breeze under his tingling skin, every single contact noticeable and heightened. He made his hand into a fist, feeling the cool metal on his finger. He became the mechanical soldier, the unemotional robot everyone needed. "I'm saving the world for you."

"No," Gilbert insisted, the ligaments of his fingers finally failing; their tiny black box fell to the ground. The noise it made as it hit the tile was like shattering glass; like the mug Gilbert had broken the day they'd first reunited.

Matthew's breath caught, and, once again, he felt like a coward on the couch, hiding from blistering red eyes.

Gilbert swung his head side to side; the strands of hair on his head rolled like pale pencils on the paper of his soaked pillow. "No, no no no no no…" And there he went again, broken and stuck on a single phrase until an acute intake of breath made the blood flow more evenly in his head. "No," he choked, "not for me. _Definitely_ not for me. 'Cause what if I'm not here when you get back? It would have been for nothing!" He continued before Matthew could contradict him. "Do it for—do it for Francis, Arthur—all of your other friends who don't even have their memories back! Estefan. Antonio. Ivan, if he counts. Think of _them_." Once the pain in his head subsided, he moved toward the bedside table.

Matthew stared at him with eyes of amethyst, shining like moons on a lonely night. Little specks of wonder floated about his head, twinkling and twinkling. The lights above created dark shadows around his shoulders, his chest, and his mind—he was slightly gaping and waiting for words to relieve him, but nothing was spoken and nothing more was thought.

He wanted to ask, _what is that liquid?_

He wanted to know, _where did you get it?_

He wanted to inquire, _who gave it to you?_

But his mind was stuck at an impenetrable impasse, and nothing more was spoken and nothing more was thought as Gilbert broke the paper-thin lid of the bottle with the needle.

Tiny beats of noise sprang from the door and it was pushed open, so softly. "Um… Matt?" asked a voice, as reluctant to talk as Matthew was to respond. "We really need to get going. Vash is saying goodbye to Lilly, but once he gets back we have to leave…"

"Alfred…" Matthew said, the syllables dripping, dripping like rain from his wet lips; barely there, and yet so tangible. He moved his neck toward his brother, mechanically. His sorrow was painted evenly between his eyes, stretching over his face. "Right now…?" His hand hovered uncertainly over Gilbert, tracing halos around his body with his finger.

Alfred could read the small wrinkles of struggle on Matthew's countenance, he could; he also saw the glint of gold on his hand; but in order for everything to be successful, for everyone to stay alive, he had to ignore the insignificant emotions. It was a hard act to keep up; they hadn't even left yet and he was faltering. "Yes, right now," he said, with no room for argument. "Besides, you'd just be talking to a body if you remain any longer." His eyes strayed, his attempt at humor very inappropriate.

A strike of a drum hit Matthew's spine, and rode all the way up to his neck, over and over. His fingers reacted, clenching themselves tightly. He turned around. Matthew saw Gilbert's eyes hidden behind his lids, and his head turned to the side.

But he was smiling.

And that was all Matthew really needed.

He gave a smile himself, once again dropping his fingers onto Gilbert's forehead. Gilbert didn't stir. Good. Let him sleep.

(Matthew couldn't see it, but the ominous liquid, along with the needle, were hidden just so under Gilbert's blanket. There was a new puncture point in Gilbert's arm, another dewdrop of blood on the bed sheet. He'd forget about it for now.)

"Come on, Matt," Alfred urged, seeing Vash coming up the corridor. Vash's hair was in his face and he seemed lost in his thoughts, which wasn't all that unusual, but the way he incessantly chewed on his bottom lip upgraded his perceived mood from bothered to distressed. "Vash?" Alfred called. "Everything alright?"

Matthew exited the room, closing the door behind him. In his head, he gave a sorrowful so-long, but that was just for him. He joined his brother and the doctor in the hallway, a trio of abandoned toys.

They all looked so pristine. Matthew and Alfred had polished, cleaned and washed their uniforms, every piece, last night when they'd been too anxious to sleep. Vash's uniform, as a doctor, wasn't that different from a D's uniform, being completely white (which seemed counterproductive, since isn't a doctor's job quite messy?). The only thing he had in addition was a long overcoat covered in pockets. It was all they really knew how to wear with confidence.

Vash swallowed. His eyes were vibrant and dancing; he knew as much, so he avoided eye contact. His hands were concealed in one of his many pockets, his thumbs anxiously running over his nails. "Lilly wasn't in her room," he mumbled. Normally he wouldn't indulge with people like this, but when it came to Lilly, everything was fair play. "I just wanted to say goodbye, but I guess she's still angry."

"Angry?" quipped the siblings. They were having a very hard time picturing the little angel anything more than blissfully at peace.

"Why is she angry?" Matthew asked, kinder than Alfred would have.

Vash started to nibble on his lip again. He spoke slowly, unraveling like a clock with every word, "I told her about our plan. She's angry because she doesn't want me to go, but I wouldn't hear of it. I left her in her room and then went to our late-night meeting. I haven't seen her since." He shrugged. "Her version of the 'silent treatment' always included completely avoiding me." A light chuckle. "She knew if we were in the same room for too long, she'd start blabbing about the weather. Hmph." His smile fell; he sighed, finally meeting their jeweled gazes. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Alfred put a hand on Vash's shoulder. Vash, surprisingly, accepted the gesture. "You'll see her when we get back," Alfred assured. While his attempt was genuine, no one, not even him, felt comforted. They all knew that there was a thin chance, maybe less than a thin chance, that—

"Matthew? Matthew!" This voice. Far-off and spoken in a song, his name sounded so sweet and innocent and simple. He was a child again, two years old, barely able to talk let alone grieve. The spark the relapse gave him spiced his blood; Matthew actually moved Vash a bit to see who was calling to him.

Francis.

His heart stopped.

"There you are! _Matthieu_, _Matthieu_!" Francis skipped—yes, yes he skipped; how did gravity allow him to, wasn't it so heavy?—down the hallway and crushed Matthew in a hug.

Matthew was overwhelmed by sensations. The scent of his father propelled him years into the past: the soft perfume of roses long abandoned. His hair was just as intimate as he remembered. Matthew hugged back tightly, his breaths controlled against Francis's neck.

Francis pulled back, his eyes twinkling diamonds. "You don't know how much I've missed you, _mon fils_! You couldn't possibly know!"

"I—"

Matthew was spun around. He was left staring at Alfred and Vash, who looked almost disapproving, while his lungs were slowly flattened. "D—D—" Was he trying to say _Dad_? He supposed he was. "Dad, you've got to be quiet," he urged, tryingly, only getting a few words out at a time. He was thinking of Gilbert, asleep, in the next room. His ring caught in the light.

Francis let him go, his smile better than gold. Despite this, his eyes looked a bit sad, the tarnish to the metal. "I'm… I'm sorry. I… I forgot that I'm not allowed to speak French." Francis fleetingly put his forehead to Matthew's, his eyes closed in frustrating focus. The skin on his face tensed, his fingers touching the back of Matthew's neck, while one of his opposite hand touched his own lips. "Ludwig explained everything so me already," he spoke, his voice a melodious murmur. "I'm sorry." Tiny traitorous syllables. Matthew felt a pang.

Matthew's eyes flickered like flames, tracing every movement of Francis' lips. Ludwig was really ahead of the game, Matthew reflected, absently. Francis pulled away from him; Matthew could tell Alfred was thinking the same thing: they hadn't even left yet and Ludwig was already warning those who'd gotten through their RR.

He was trying not to think of his father than no more than a recovering patient, a longtime victim; but the signs were clearly laid out.

Matthew's lips were dry; he ran his tongue over them before continuing, "But that's not why—"

"Where have you been all this time?" Francis interrupted. "I've been looking everywhere… Of course, I couldn't visit your room since you're not in the A section, shame, but the cafeteria, the recreation center… Where have you been?" Francis talked fast, trying to make up for years of silence.

"In… in my room," he admitted, truthfully. The somber admission caused a moment of quiet.

Francis rolled over his natural reflex to ask what was wrong. Matthew's eyes clearly deterred him from the question; while he was miffed for being blocked out, he was over the moon knowing he and his son still had that same, irreplaceable, subliminal bond. He looked him up and down. "You're sure dressed up," he hummed in approval. "Are they letting you try out again for the A section since the first try-outs were unable to be judged?" He seemed excited, genuinely proud, claiming Matthew's shoulders.

Matthew thought back to wild red eyes and wrinkles in clothing that mapped futures. He remembered those innocent times before the try-outs, before his world had been turned upside-down. But he couldn't understand why it was being brought up again, what possible significance it had now. "…Excuse me?"

Alfred looked embarrassed. There was a insignificant, misplaced laugh he held under his breath. He explained, "South Italy, what was his name? Uh, any who, well he totally went ballistic and attacked Sp—I mean, Antonio, during the second round. Everyone was too shocked to go on."

Matthew was appalled. He couldn't imagine it.

"They all say poor Toni deserved it, though," France commented, sounding both entertained and shamed.

"When I was stitching up his arm, he couldn't stop smiling," Vash added, almost blandly. "Turns out he'd been wanting that reaction from Romano—"

"That was his name," Alfred sighed.

"—for a long time, he said. Go figure. I never knew them well." Vash looked away from them.

Stitches, Matthew's mind echoed. What a complex relationship they must have shared.

"Huh, you two are all dressed up, too," Francis observed, noticing the other two, and taking in Vash and Alfred's appearances, but blotting out the stressed looks on their faces. "Is there a party I don't know about?" he joked. He gave a small little dance, spinning his fingers in the air.

Matthew panicked, everything coming back to him in a rush. The friendly encounter with his father and the idle conversation had distracted him. "F—" His natural instinct, in such a turned business-like situation, told him to say 'France'. He fought it and said, "Dad, Alfred, Vash and I were given a… given a mission." He felt no need to add that their collected destinies were on his shoulders like a yoke.

"Like… like what?" Francis asked, frowning.

"Like…"

"Basically, you can compare it to picking up dry cleaning," Alfred said, quickly, too nervous to allow Matthew to lie, although his brother was a better liar. "We're just picking up something. For Ludwig. Y—yeah, for Ludwig."

Francis looked at them, suspicious, but not enough to accuse.

"And we have to get going," Vash added, still a little preoccupied, still thinking of his sister.

"Oh. Well, I don't want to keep you," Francis began, disappointed that he hadn't gotten the time he'd wanted with his son. "Have fun on this little… mission. But Matthew, I want to talk to you when you get back!" He began walking away, pointing a finger back at Matthew. He winked.

_This is my last image of you._ Gilbert's words came back to him. Matthew tried to paint this scene in his head: his father so assured, so full of life. Would this be the last time he saw his father after just getting him back?

"Dad!" he blurted, and for all of the world's worth, his voice cracked.

His father turned around, taken by surprise. This picture would last a lifetime, a million words.

Matthew chased after him. He pressed his face into Francis's shoulder, not letting himself touch him with his hands. "D—Dad, I love you," he stuttered, too quiet for his brother or Vash to hear.

Francis was obviously touched by the gesture. His eyes watered, his whole body frozen for a moment with indecision; finally he took his son in his arms. "I love you, too. Remember, _Mathieu_," he whispered, holding his son tighter, pulling them together before they'd all break apart; "I love you."


	39. chapter thirtyeight

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT**: (the plan begins and the doctor is more than he seems)

Their whole life was a fairy tale, Matthew was thinking. Everything was controlled by the shaking, inky hand of some far-off author, one whose true purpose could not be distinguished. This author controlled their smiles, their tragedies, their world, all while keeping them separated from him. The whole station was their faux, fenced playpen…

And they'd finally escaped.

Outside. Matthew had never been, strictly speaking, outside. He'd been… _outside_… in vehicles before. Aircrafts, other carriers. But never so physically, so intimately. The air on his skin felt as pleasurable as poison, so unfamiliar to him that he found it distasteful. Every breath he released circulated in the air, mixing in with the scent of trees and life.

Matthew's eyes strained to take it in; he couldn't quite see. It was dark, almost abysmal, as they gallivanted across the grass, as quick as thieves and pressured as convicts. Someone had deactivated the lights outside; or that's what Matthew would have figured, days, hours, weeks ago, when to him, there hadn't been a _sun_ outside, but a large light up in the sky that was manually switched on and off.

What a creative lie that was.

Whatever the means, he knew midnight had fallen heavily on them.

Though, they preferred it that way. Even if they wanted to experience the nature they'd been robbed of for so long, the nighttime helped conceal them. With their shaded uniforms (Alfred's being the darkest) it was hard to tell them apart from the bushes they hid in; Vash's white clothing could cause some problems but he didn't seem concerned.

Speaking of Vash, he was silent, but fidgeting, sitting beside Matthew; Matthew, however, was worried.

"Do you—do you need a key? A card?" he guessed, peering up at the tall concrete fence piercing the velvet sky above him. There was a rectangle, sealed-off door that his attention was fixated on. Beside it was a small box with a tiny round hole. His logic was that somehow… maybe something could be entered into it, giving them access to the Terror Territory. "Alfred?"

Alfred, with pursed lips like fruits, crouched further down, irritating his knees. His eyes flickered, danced and played, entertaining different scenarios and different ways of approaching. Not all of them were completely realistic; one involving two parachutes and Matthew learning to do cartwheels made him smile. "No… At least, I don't think so," Alfred said. "I've never been… _out_-out here. Only in my plane, you know," he admitted, shrugging a shoulder.

"Yeah," Matthew placated; he knew very well. He supposed Vash had never been outside at all. What a world, trapped between medicine cabinets and headaches. "But have you heard anything?" he tried. "Any rumors that could be based on fact?"

Matthew quivered with anxiousness, looking over his shoulder equally as long as he stared forward. The Terrors they fought against were ones who _escaped_ from this block prison… apparently… so any of them could be loitering around. The Terrors weren't dangerous by nature, he'd read, but simply scared when they weren't within the white walls; they were terrified of anything that wasn't regulation, they needed their life ordered for them, ordered like cement blocks. Matthew swallowed. He supposed that could have been said about them, too.

He had gotten this information from a book on his shelf in his old room; thinking about it, he hadn't bought any of the books themselves. They'd been there, waiting for him. So who knew how accurate it was? It could have been easily manipulated, all truth choked out by the Superiors… He didn't want to rule it out, but he was cautious; the only thing solid he had to guide him was the dark future that lay ahead.

Vash had his thumbnail between his teeth, staring at the wall with acute concentration; he was so focused that his features had gone blank. They couldn't be sure of exactly what he was focusing on, so they left him to it.

"Uh… I don't know," Alfred mumbled in response to Matthew's queries. "Oh, I, uh, I did hear something that if you threw food at them they calmed down…?" He chuckled at that; what an insane image that conjured. He imagined a pilot scared so witless that he threw everything away in a desperate attempt to dissuade the Terrors; he could imagine the pilot's face as they soothed while devouring his lunch. "…But that doesn't help us get in," he hurried to add. "And it sounds stupid, anyway." He did have a sandwich in his pocket—but that was for him, for later.

"Oh," Matthew said. There was nothing else revolving in his mind. How annoying. His hate would burn like a fire if they couldn't follow through with the plan before it'd even _began_. "How—how could we have not thought of this?" he spoke aloud, outlining his deepest fear: that it'd all been for nothing. No one could get their souls back. They'd all die, just like Gil—

Matthew gulped, nervously twisting his ring around on his finger.

Alfred's voice was a comfort in theory, but not in words: "If we had time to think," he spat, all of his indecency from his childhood slipping through; they were siblings, once again pointing out one another's faults; "we probably would've—" He stopped, feeling an icy glare on him from behind despite not being able to see it.

"Well, come on, Matthew," he hissed, turning to face his brother. They could barely read one another's countenances; it was just like during their meeting a few days before. They had to paint one another's faces and expressions. Alfred imagined clownish features on his brother to make himself feel better, humiliate the other further. "You really couldn't have expected them to just all be out waiting for you, could you have? And what, you thought yours would just come to say hello and that would be that? Come on, Matthew…"

Frowning, Matthew realized his image of the Terror Territory was a wide field where they spent their days until they decided to attack… not held in a box… wait a minute. Wait a minute!

He gasped, just as Vash stood up.

Vash moved in front of Alfred, a silhouette against the moon. "Gimme your hand," he said, his voice disembodied and soft. He held out his own worn fingers, their shadow clear to Alfred.

With furrowed eyebrows, and a bit of nervousness, Alfred articulated, "Wha…?"

Flustered, Vash rolled his eyes. His hand shivered, and he pushed his lips together, trying to maintain his bravado. "Just—come on," he said, taking on a whole new tone of irritation. "Give me your hand."

Matthew was staring at Vash, trying to read his eyes through the darkness; he didn't quite succeed. "Al, do it," he still said to his brother, speaking hesitantly through the side of his mouth. He shifted his position, moving his knees from the grass to the dirt.

"Well, whatever," Alfred finally cried on a whim. He put his hand into Vash's, letting the doctor pull him to his feet. More embarrassed than anything, he talked quickly to himself. "It's not like the rest of history depends on these moments," he grumbled, echoing his past ideals.

Vash, his grip tight on the sleeve of Alfred's jacket, pulled the officer toward the impending façade. Matthew felt quite afraid, then, and alone, watching his only two companions leave him behind. He watched the backs of their bodies, straining to see their outlines, holding desperately to Alfred's monologue: "Nope. It's not that if we waste all of this moonlight by the time we actually get to the HQ, that, whoops! it'll be light outside and we'll be caught!"

Vash stopped in front of the building, his lips pressed together in confusion as he scanned the wall. Finally finding what he was looking for with an exhale, he pulled Alfred closer to his side. He folded down four of Alfred's fingers, holding out his thumb like an offering toward the sky.

Alfred's voice had begun to fade, entranced by Vash's manipulation of his fingers, but he quickly picked up again: "And—and if we get caught, pfft, it's not like we'll be killed! Nah! Th—"

Vash rashly pressed Alfred's thumb into the tiny hole beside the door, silencing Alfred for good. He watched the officer's face tensely, keeping his hand in position.

With a noise of discomfort, Alfred watched as a dark blue light melted in around his thumb. It was heated, as well, but not painfully so; after what seemed like an eternity of uncertainty, the light faded, and Vash let go of Alfred's arm.

Matthew waited with mystification in his eyes.

Suddenly a long siren noise spread out in the sky above them: louder than they'd ever heard, the most frightening thing they'd yet to experience. Red lights from atop the building began to blare; they couldn't quite see them through the clouds, so it appeared that the sky was turning red and trying to swallow them in rapid, unsuccessful bursts.

Alfred tried to run back toward Matthew, but quickly lost his footing and fell to his knees. "Vash, you idiot!" he screeched, forcing his voice above the din; "You broke it! You fool! We're dead!" He pushed the moons of his palms against his ears, trying his hardest to drown out everything. He pulled his head down between his knees.

Matthew, though no one could hear it above the noise, began to whine in distress, his own hands against the side of his head. The Terrors, his mind yelped at him, the Terrors were escaping! They'd trample them, tear them to shreds, rip their very breaths from their throats—

Vash was tense, waiting out the noise and lights and calamity. He stood stock still, seeming to fight with his own natural intuition to collapse. "I didn't break it," he argued, absolutely screaming. "I—"

The noise stopped. The light ceased. The nighttime was theirs again.

Then, without warning, the door cracked against the cement. It pulled backward, wide and proud, and then slid out of sight.

It was an entrance, and behind it was more darkness, but sparked with lines of luminescence; purple lines of luminescence barely distinguishable.

Matthew was awed. He couldn't believe his eyes. He rose from the bushes, still a bit shaky and swaying on his feet. "Vash, how did you…?"

Alfred was staring at his finger as if it was magic.

Vash took his time with his words, preferring to stare into the building with wonder and a twinge of satisfaction. When he spoke, he did so off-handedly: "When Alfred asked if you had expected the Terrors to be waiting for you… it got me thinking. What if they didn't escape _willingly?_ What if they were… just… just let go, and the officers were just told to shoot? It sounded impossible, but then I saw that little hole again—and realized it was just big enough for a finger print. And Alfred's the highest ranked out of the three of us, so it's more likely his print would be accepted…"

Amazed, Matthew let a tiny smile light up his lips. Vash's logic was… impressive. Vash had been so convinced that a war was going on—he must have been more conspiracy-oriented then they'd realized. There must be more to that doctor front, he thought. He was a real bonus to them, a true blessing.

Though just as inspired as Matthew, Alfred scrunched up his nose. "Why didn't you just _say_ that, Vash? You didn't have to be so mysterious."

He watched Matthew evenly. He echoed Roderich's convictions, a pained smile on his lips. "You didn't _ask_ me."


	40. chapter thirtynine

**CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE**: (never-ending numbers)

The open doorway hovered right next to them, overpowering and vicious. Noises were crying out from the inside, seeming to call for them, to them; just the thought that they were aware of them, needing them, kept them frozen in their tracks. Something was _alive_ in there; something was alive and _wanting_. They figured the clamor to be from the Terrors; but who'd known that they made such ungodly noises? Who'd known their screams sounded distantly human? Concurrently, the shadows seemed so angry and those cement walls rose hundreds and hundreds of feet higher.

"Better—" Alfred swallowed nervously; his voice was a benediction in the night; "—better get this over with, right?"

"Of course," Vash accented, trying not to sound as frightened as he was. He rolled his shoulders, standing up straighter.

Matthew carefully walked out of the bushes, a hardened fear clasping him around the neck. Every footfall tightened it; every moment the shouts were getting louder and closer to him. But all he had to think of were Gilbert's words to him, and he was able to clear his throat and take the first steps inside. The others followed tentatively behind, raising Matthew as their leader. He counted the seconds, trying to make the time seem shorter…

They entered, breathing in unison, or maybe not breathing at all.

When they were fully inside, the rectangular block fell heavily back into place, seeming to trap them inside. The noises increased, only to fade with fatigue.

Alfred suppressed a scream, turning around in a desperate attempt to find the doorway again.

Matthew was looking in the opposite direction; he stood, wide-eyed and astounded. "My gosh," he gasped, "look at this…"

They fell into a collective silence as they stared at the interior of the building they had feared for so long.

Along the back walls, boxes up to their shoulders were positioned evenly in lines. Though they appeared to be glass because of their translucent features, they had more the strength of plastic or metal than anything else. Each one had a yellow sticker taped across the front with black numbers written on it.

And inside each of those containers were masses of what looked to be dark purple light—but each mass was, somehow, clearly identifiable from the one next to it. They moved and squirmed like lava lamps; their purple auras were the only light in the building, making everything murky and lavender.

"The Terrors," mumbled Matthew. He had seen them before from up in the sky, but from a closer proximity, they didn't seem as terrifying as their name implied. They almost looked lost, imprisoned, helpless.

There was nothing else in the room but a hundred or so of those crystalline boxes.

"Where—" Again, Alfred had to stop midsentence, to gather his bearings. His heart was tripping uncertainly. He felt like he needed to sit. "—where do we start?"

"We just, uh…" Matthew hadn't a clue.

Suddenly, the boxes began to shake—the Terrors had realized their voices realized the significance of humans amongst their midst, and were becoming rambunctious. A high-pitched noise, like the sirens from before, but softer, came from them as well.

Matthew moved his lips, but no sound came out.

"Oh… okay," Alfred started, trying his best to rid the impotent silence. "All we have to do is go around and try to find our personal souls… it shouldn't be that hard. I think it's possible that you'll know yours by just looking at it." He put more confidence into his statements than he really had.

"But they're all identical!" Vash cried, aghast. He seemed wayward amongst all of the strangeness, swimming in a purple sea. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly, looking around him, daring himself to be caught off-guard.

Alfred was already on the other side of the room, ignoring them and ducking behind a few containers to get a better look at the things inside. The Terrors blinked and stared back at him, their eyes small little dots on the surface of their skin. Alfred felt nauseous.

Curiously, Matthew approached the box right in front of him. The beings inside were unfamiliar to him, and a bit odd, so he studied the tape instead. That one read:

"_11012055_."

The one beside it said:

"_12012055_."

They were numbered, probably for organization. But the numbers were so high… were there really that many boxes? Or had they had more boxes previously but were now gone?

Matthew let out a breath that fogged out the image of the Terrors. All at once, Vash's words came to him, his visage appearing in the mist:

'_What if they didn't escape willingly? What if they were let go, and the officers were just told to shoot?_'

It had seemed so insignificant when he had first said it; Matthew had focused on the fact that he had managed to open the doors.

But now…

"Vash! Vash," he exclaimed, "you were right!"

"Uh?" asked Vash, a few yards away from him, scrutinizing a box of his own.

A stutter of time clashed with the beating of his heart. Matthew couldn't take his eyes away from that weary, yellow, strip of tape. Suddenly he ran his fingers over it. It felt like paper, like a death certificate. "These—these are _dates!_"

There was a pause as it sunk in.

"What do ya mean? Like, their birthdays or something?" Alfred's voice was so abstracted, so disconnected in its naivety. He got more excited as the idea began to appeal to him. He had a child's one-track mind, propelling him somewhere safe; somewhere faraway. "So—so—we could just find one that has our birthdays on it, and our soul should be _in_ there!" He grinned, and turned his head toward his sibling. "Great catch, bro! This one says 04012056… nope. Nowhere close to July!"

"What?" Matthew started at his brother, trying to catch his train of thought. He shook his head. "No," he corrected. "The dates on the boxes are…" He stopped. Was he really about to admit it? What he really going to fall for Vash's conspiracy of war? He swallowed, and his eyes blurred the box in front of him. "The dates… are for when they're to be _released!_" Matthew took Alfred's gasp and held it. "Someone must come in here every month or so and let go of some… and then in the station, we're given told that they've _escaped_… and we shoot them, we… we kill them."

They weren't boxes. They were cages.

There was a moment for contemplation, one where Vash became a little perplexed. "Did I… did I say that?" he asked. "I don't think I said that."

"Not… not exactly, but you were _right_." Matthew kept staring at the box before him in horror. Only when he noticed eyes looking back at him did he falter. He moved away from the container, wincing.

Enraged, Alfred yelled, "They've been using us for their dirty work all along! They probably don't even know that _our_ souls are in here, too, and that we'd eventually be killing _ourselves_ off…!" If there was anything accessible, he would have kicked something. "What idiots!" he cried in indignation.

Vash had been moving steady throughout the boxes, snaking around corners slickly. Suddenly, he came to a halt. Icicles punctured his skin. "Alfred, what was that you said earlier?" he said, with his voice like a cold wind. His lungs were frozen.

Alfred was still fuming, and regarded Vash with delayed irritation: "What are you talking about?"

"About… about… you being able to tell who the souls are… when you see them?"

Both brothers stopped, bullets of shock riding in their blood. "Did—did you find yours?" Matthew inquired incredulously.

"No." Vash's fingers clenched, pressed against a side of the box. He turned his head around sharply, his locks messily falling over his brows. "But I think I found Roderich's."


	41. chapter forty

**CHAPTER FORTY**: (sometimes you're not the only one)

At the silence, Vash turned red. He implored the officers with his eyes. "Is—is that weird?" he asked, all of his insecurities laid out for them to dissect. He welcomed the brothers to play doctor for the moment, diagnosing an impending mental illness.

Matthew couldn't decide—how did they know what was weird or not in this situation? There were _Terrors_ in _boxes_. He'd experienced enough abnormality with that alone! Nothing seemed to surprise him.

Alfred shrugged a shoulder, keeping his distance from them, preferring to stay across the room. He trailed his fingers over the tops of a few boxes. It was if he was blessing them; after being touched, the Terrors inside did seem to calm down a bit. "Nah," he decided finally. "I saw… I saw Arthur's over there," he admitted. And slightly to himself he added, "What's weird is that I just can't call him _Dad_..." He scowled uncomfortably.

Frowning, Vash stared through the box. The box stared back at him. "Hm," he pondered, moving on.

Matthew watched him for a moment before continuing himself.

The three of them walked around without purpose, as if through an endless maze. Vash found his sister; Alfred identified his friend Toris; and Matthew additionally saw his own father's soul. It took them quite a while to find their own.

"Here I am!" Alfred trilled. "It looks nothing like me, but I'm sure!" His hands melted against the plastic of the box labeled 09012056. He would have had a year left.

"This one's mine," mumbled Vash, looking over container 01012056. He would have had four months left.

Matthew was last—his box said 10012055.

He would have had less than a month.

Nausea overturned his stomach. His mind reeled. Trembling, he realized he could have been dying, that soon. That suddenly.

And he wouldn't have even known.

As Matthew froze in horror, Alfred wailed, "How do we get us out?"

Alfred tapped on the sides of his box, leaving his colleges to hypothesize. "Hello there, me," he cooed; speaking to his Terror was a very unnerving, thought-stalling experience. "You're going to get out and we're going to be together again! Isn't that just awesome?" His words continued to flow, seemingly unable to stop themselves. Every syllable had a separate knock on his sanity.

Vash watched Alfred with a little pain in his eyes. He figured quietly, "We can't get the single soul out without releasing the others in the box. But I think there's only twenty or so in each… maybe…" He faltered, forcing himself into Matthew's eye contact for support. "It's… it's not ideal, but we might have to release them, take ours, and just let the rest in the box free."

Matthew realized, "But then the people in the station would shoot them!"

"Ludwig might figure out not to," Alfred said innocently. "I told him we were getting our souls. He'll tell everyone not to shoot."

"No," Matthew replied. "If he does, the officers will know something's up. He'd _have_ to do it… And he'd know…" Matthew hadn't appreciated the extent of Ludwig's part in this before. He hadn't known what a sacrifice Ludwig would be making just to protect them… Matthew quickly scanned his own box. If luck would have it, he'd be the only one in his box. The rest of the Terrors would simply be the souls of people already dead, it wouldn't matter. No one would—

Oh, no.

Oh. No.

Alfred shrugged, oblivious as his brother forgot how to breathe. "Oh well. We'll just have to lose who we lose… I don't recognize anyone else in my box."

"Me neither," Vash agreed, feeling a little better.

Matthew's jaw began to shiver, his heart rate increased; maybe his body wanted to cry at the injustice of it all. He didn't know. Matthew turned around. "But someone's in my container, too," he said, the bearer of bad news.

"Who?" the others demanded, both weary.

Matthew's mouth couldn't form the word at first. His throat seemed to close around it, keeping it locked within him, a deep, dark secret for no one to hear. If only it could be that simple. When Alfred moved forward, in what looked like an attempt to comfort him, Matthew quickly shooed him away. This wasn't about them, not about the two of them; there were innocent civilians, ones who had wanted no more than to check on an ill friend. As some sort of parallel torture, Matthew made himself meet Vash's eyes. His smile was dough; his heart, molten. "…Roderich," he said.

Vash turned to ice.


	42. chapter fortyone

**CHAPTER FORTY-ONE**: (the doctor fights a losing battle and zero fears for his life)

Alfred stilled, feeling like he was caught between artillery fire, no man's land. He moved backward, protectively against his box. Its warmth seemed to seek him, filling him with heat.

Matthew was completely devastated, his mountains crumbling. The whole point of this mission was to save people, not purposefully condemn them. "Isn't there any other…?" His voice couldn't work, it cracked off. His mind wasn't thinking of any reasonable answers. Maybe he just didn't need his soul back. That was it! He could wait, he could live. He had a month left—

"Gil—I—" Vash seemed a bit dizzy. His eyes flickered, searching for solutions in the air. His hands were cold. "I can… I can… I can save Gilbert by the time we get back, and he's been ill longer so—so—so if Roderich gets… sick within the next few days, I'll be able to save him easily," he decided. "Do it," Vash said, his lips barely moving.

Alfred swallowed.

"Vash…"

"We're not going back now because of some stupid coincidence," Vash fought. "Come on. Let's just… break the cases or something. But one at a time; we don't know what'll happen."

Matthew turned away from him, regret taking up a permanent residence in the back of his mind. It would be there forever, a little strand of guilt. "Alfred, you go first," he instructed his brother. He still felt that familial need to protect him.

Alfred seemed uncertain, his nerves frayed from Vash and Matthew's discussion. "Well—okay then. If I have to." He gave a last glance over his box before looking around the room. He hurried over and picked up an empty pipe from the ground, nestled in the corner after falling from the ceiling. What it could have ever been for, he wouldn't know. He re-approached box 09012056 and held the blunt instrument over his head. He tightened his fingers on it like spider's legs. He could imagine blood on his hands. He spoke to his soul numbly, "This might hurt a bit, okay? But then it'll be all over."

With a sudden and preemptive sense of terror, Matthew abandoned all balance and lent against his box; he slid until he hit the ground. He covered his face in his forearms, and turned away from the up-incoming destruction. Trembling, his thoughts inquired him:

Would the Terrors come out calmly?

Or would they spread throughout the room like famine?

The door was firmly locked; that they were sure; and another fingerprint-scanner was positioned beside it for them to access out of—but the Terrors didn't have fingerprints.

They'd be restricted between the four wide walls.

_With_ them.

In the corner of his vision, Matthew saw Vash also disappear behind a container, his hands on his head.

Giving no warning, Alfred brought the pipe down with a battle cry. Shards of sharp plastic exploded, along with a disarming purple light.

Matthew lost all of his senses; the light was blinding him, and everything suddenly sounded so muffled, he felt weightless—but the one thing Matthew heard clearly, out of all the clamor, was his own brother screaming out in agony.


	43. chapter fortytwo

**CHAPTER FORTY-TWO**: (four is alive)

Smoke faded, and Matthew seemed to awaken from a indistinct, forgotten nightmare. He opened his eyes into another one: Alfred was standing at the top of a high pyramid of boxes, on his knees and grasping his arm. Alfred panted as if he'd never breathed before. But he _was_ breathing, and that's all that mattered.

"Alfred!" Matthew screamed. The cry echoed through every spine, against every corner.

Though he seemed disoriented, Alfred managed to raise his head and meet Matthew's stare. "M—Mattie," Alfred shrieked. "They're out of _control_!"

And sure enough, the twenty or so Terrors that had been box 09012056 were clawing at the bottom row of boxes; all of them slow and staring up at Alfred. Purple light surrounded each and every one of them. The broken pieces of the containers were below them, where their feet should be.

They weren't frenzied or vicious, they were simply relentless—they needed human contact. They wanted their own bodies back, but all they saw was Alfred—they didn't notice Vash trembling in the corner or Matthew cowering behind them. So they flocked toward this human warmth, despite how unwilling it was to receive them.

Alfred was exaggerating.

"What—where's yours?" Matthew asked loudly, over the constant droning of the Terrors; they sounded like fans on overdrive, engines failing.

Alfred hissed acutely, pressing his back against the wall. "Mine—it—it got me right away. It went under my skin, kinda. I'm bleeding, but I'm so alive now, Mattie!" He could help but let a smile end his declaration. "I'm alive! I've never felt so a—eeek!" One of the Terror's spiny, formless hands had gotten closer to his dangled foot, so he yelled and pulled his legs against his chest.

Vash raised his head above the horizon of boxes. He looked weary, but sure. "Alfred," he exclaimed. "Get that sandwich out of your pocket!"

Random. That was random, was Matthew's first thought.

Alfred seemed to think so too. "What? Vash, this is not the time for a lunch!"

"Alfred!" Vash implored; Listen to me! Didn't you say there was a rumor that they calmed when in the face of food? It's—it's our last shot now!" No matter how inane it sounded.

"Vash is right," Matthew added, seemingly for the hundredth time. How could he have forgotten about the food? "But—but not all of it, Alfred," he warned, "just rip off a piece! We still need to get my and Vash's souls out too."

Reluctant, Alfred seemed to sink further into himself, into a place where their lives were not in danger, their lives were just beginning. "But—then what am _I_ going to eat?" he asked, when the silence stretched too long, stopping himself from submerging completely into that bliss.

"Don't _give_ it to them, you idiot," Vash admonished. "Just _hold it out_! The scent alone should calm them down, I'm hoping…"

Alfred scrambled, using his left hand to dig in his pocket, as his right one was stained. He finally managed to crumble the corner of the bread in his palm and pull it out. He thrust it out toward the Terrors below them, beckoning everyone's safety in a last-ditch attempt.

The Terrors stopped. They sniffed the air a bit before falling placidly to the ground. They stared up at Alfred, pacified, like loyal puppies; harmless like loyal puppies.

Alfred's disbelief clouded before him in a breath, translucent, not able to disguise his smile. He couldn't believe it, but he dared himself to jump on these lucky chances. Swallowing, he hung off the very edge of the pyramid. He shook as he moved down the boxes; both Vash and Matthew observed him very carefully, ready to spring to action lest the smallest thing went wrong.

As Alfred pressed his shoes to the ground, he broke out in a grin. "Ha ha! I'm okay!" He threw his hands up, quietly shifting around the docile group of Terrors until he was at his brother's side.

Their eyes followed him readily.

Matthew clutched to Alfred's shirt, trying to keep him close.

Alfred whispered to him, holding his injured arm against his side, "What are we going to do know? We can't just leave them here…"

The Terrors blinked. One of them made a noise, a muted crowing.

Matthew swallowed before saying, "We'll… keep them calm until we open my and Vash's boxes… and then we'll release them all together."

Vash began to rub at his eyes.


	44. chapter fortythree

**CHAPTER FORTY-THREE**: (lying is the same as saying nothing at all)

The aftermath kept them tethered, kept them absolutely terrified. After what they'd seen—after what they'd experienced—they had no choice but to tremble and tumble out of the building, trying to keep everything and their minds intact. The bushes around them were crushed with the ferocity the Terrors had executed in escaping, leaving behind a wounded wasteland.

They paused, catching their breaths, and let their shadows silhouette backward against the façade. The moonlight, however, was blinding.

They were all hurt, sickly: Alfred's arm was still bleeding, Matthew's chest felt like a churning black hole, and Vash's head threatened to split right open. But this was the most magnificent thing: this pain, this exquisite pain, was only further proof that they were alive, that they could feel. Nothing they had ever experienced had been so wonderful; nothing had ever been so _real_. They had no choice but to smile with clenched jaws.

There was no need to fear for their destruction anymore, either, because their souls were with them now, and forever would be.

Alfred rested against a thick tree, pressing his damp head against the bark. He hissed, still grinning, and closed his eyes tight. "…Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, letting it finally fall from someone's mouth.

No one had to question who he was talking to; or who he was talking _about_.

Vash was lying on his back on the ground, looking at a dark sky with his eyes narrowed. Everything seemed so vibrant to him, even in the darkness. Had this been what they'd been missing their whole lives? He swam in this musing, resting quite a bit away from the brothers. "No," he snapped. "I really _don't_."

Matthew said once more, "I'm so sorry about this, Vash… But once we start feeling better we won't waste any time in getting to HQ. I'm confident it'll all work out." So what if he was insincere? The more he repeated it, the more he reassured himself. He sat with his knees against his chest, sharing Alfred's tree for respite.

With a painful murmur—every separate word that they let into the air was another slam to his skull—Vash cupped his hands around his temples. Clouds of misery were filling up his mind. "What am I supposed to say?" he countered.

Alfred wasn't in the mood for talking. He had only suggested the topic in the first place because his brother had violently nudged him to do so. The constant prodding to his arm had made it start to bleed again, right as it'd started to scab. What timing. "Ah, I don't know…" he tried, uncertainly. "Just… talk about your feelings and crap?"

"Alfred," Matthew warned. Maybe his brother wasn't the one to pick up this conversation as he'd hoped. He sighed, trying his best to tenderly approach… "Just… Vash," he began, smiling, though Vash still had his eyes averted from them; "We don't know _what_ happened to you, but we know something… did. I had just gotten my soul back, so I wasn't quite paying attention… and Alfred had climbed on top of the pyramid again. But we want to know…" He swallowed, then said:

"What happened to you when we opened my box?"

His heartbeats were echoing underneath his skin now, reliving the trauma a second time around. Vash was cold, with a frigid wind nipping at him, but he felt as if he were burning. "What—why is that even important? It doesn't matter know, right?"

"Yeah, why?" Alfred asked, using a leaf he'd found on the ground and pressing it to the slice on his arm.

Matthew pulled the foliage away from Alfred, worried about infections and bugs and everything else. As he dropped it he said, "Don't you want to tell us? If I've learned anything…" He started to regret and stopped for a moment. "If I've learned anything," he continued, just as strong, "it's that you don't say what you want."

The incident in the infirmary came back to them.

Vash grimaced, as best as he could, his physical pain and emotional distress rolled into nothing more than a deformation of his lips. He started to speak, slowly. "Roderich was in your box too, as you're well informed of... And when his soul came out… you know, it was… it was really freaky. Suddenly it was as if he was right there before me—I could have touched him if I wanted to—and yet, he wasn't. It was like the shell of him, and it kind of stood there, looking at me—like it knew it was me but it didn't know how it knew."

Vash's last sentence chilled Matthew: hadn't Gilbert experienced that same thing? Knowing Matthew, and yet not knowing?

"There was all that light around, you remember… I didn't know where either of you had gone… I only saw _it_. It kind of reached out its shaky hand to me…" Vash imitated the movement, putting his hand up to touch the sky. "And it said, 'I want to stay here.'" His voice fell, and he opened his eyes: wide.

The convulsions in Matthew's chest were slowly fading.

Sputtering indignantly, Alfred demanded, "What? They can _talk_?"

While staring at Vash, Matthew was trying to make sense of the Terror's words.

Vash's headache was a long-forgotten dream.

"No… not really… but that's what came into my head," he admitted.

"Does that _mean_ anything to you?" Matthew asked uncertainly.

Alfred had stopped bleeding.

He was silent for quite a while, but he finally decided, "No."


	45. chapter fortyfour

**CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR**: (the roles of lowly heroes)

Alfred was leading—or rather, _creating_—their path. He assured his fellow travelers that yes, _yes_; he knew what he was doing, he knew where he was going; he was getting them there, to the HQ, because he was the only one who could. Even as the memory became more and more blurry, as his directions became more and more doubtful, he'd get them there. And he'd do it with a smile.

"Um…" he emitted uncertainly, that confident smile of his decreasing—just a bit.

They were losing the cover of night. The sun was coming up and, while it was a refreshing sight since none of them had seen this real sun for years, it meant they were more likely to be spotted by anyone while approaching the HQ.

If they could find it.

"I thought you said you could remember the way," Matthew mumbled, climbing over a fallen tree. How it had fallen? He didn't know. Was the weather the same here? Tornados, storms, snow? Could it have been lightning to fall this tree? Not something to think about now, he thought, he had other problems…

With a wince, Alfred continued his brisk and frenzied pace of speed. He was near leaving them behind out of frustration. "I—I _do_ remember, I _do_. But…" There had to be a reason to explain it, there just had to be; he had to pull something out of thin air, something, anything, and fast; "Couldn't they have… Couldn't they have moved it?"

"Makes sense," Vash supported, just barely disguising his annoyance. (Alfred's sigh of relief was not heard.) "They could have moved it after so many years. But why would they?" he argued, suddenly. "They don't suspect anyone to know where they are. And they can't be _that_ far away from the station to keep such accurate tabs about us, so we'll probably find them soon if your directions are right."

Alfred would never admit to the bit of insecurity he started to feel.

Vash was keeping their sanity. Over their long trek, the brothers would get into small arguments over which way to go, if they should rest now, or did you hear that noise? and Vash, still so neutral, would tell them not what they wanted to hear. He'd explain whatever made the most sense, what the most logical of answers was. He would tell them that if they go this way, they might possibly go off a cliff, or maybe they won't; resting would make them lose time, or make them more willing to go on; or that the noise they had heard was just their own footsteps. Or maybe they weren't.

"So just keep walking," Vash concluded.

Matthew huffed a bit, moving out of the way of a patch of grass that seemed suspicious—three leaves were bad, right? Was he remembering correctly?—and glaring daggers at his brother's oblivious back.

Matthew was keeping them aware. Gilbert was dying. Ludwig was probably telling the officers to attack the group of sixty or so Terrors coming at them—Terrors that only wanted human connection because they'd lost their physical being—so Roderich was probably falling ill that very moment. Alfred constantly wanted to stop and complain; Matthew had to remind him of the lives at stake. Vash kept falling into silences that Matthew thought were very internal and depressive, so he had to keep luring him out of them with questions that were oh so very trivial.

"We're running low on time," Matthew said.


	46. chapter fortyfive

**CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE**: (the worries of a superior officer and the third strike)

It all began with a scream.

Letting his racing heart settle, Ludwig panted into the darkness and trembled. He was quietly informed that it was two-twenty-three in the morning by the soft glare of his clock. This did nothing to soothe him. All he made sure to do was to keep breathing, in and out, in, out—

The scream was lingering now, after adventuring under his doorway and seeping into his head. It'd roused him so violently from sleep, he'd never been so scared.

He'd spent a long week executing orders, and had lain down to a promising rest no more than two hours ago—and now, it seemed, he was not destined for sleep. Reality had him chained and _tired_.

Ludwig closed his eyes again, sure it'd been some kind of nightmare, sure it hadn't been real but—if he listened really, really closely, he could hear loud whimpers flowing through his walls, ever persistent and ever sorrowful.

Sometimes he wished he wasn't head of command.

Ludwig walked over, all tiptoed and wired, to open his door. But, of course, he had to spare but a moment to slick back his hair and appear somewhat presentable. He always had to look presentable, no matter the time. No matter the reason; no matter the people.

He closed his bedroom door behind him as he left, signaling that now he'd be cursed to insomnia for the rest of the early morning.

At first, he couldn't distinguish where those noises were coming from—he heard them oh so close, but where were they? Who was making them?—so he moved slower and more carefully down his section's hallways. It went through in a familiar haze.

Past Arthur's, past Francis's, past Ivan's, past Yao's, past Feliciano's, and past Alfred's and Gilbert's barren rooms he strolled before realizing that it was coming from the B wing.

He hurried then, because he was starting to sense the urgency in the unknown voice that was crying out to him. Screaming out for him—calling his name under the unintelligible yells. Or maybe he was imagining that.

Suddenly he was running.

Past Romano's room, past Antonio's room, past Vash's empty room, past Tino's room, past Berwald's room, past Matthew's vacant room, past Roderich's room, past—

Roderich!

The sobbing was so distinct.

Ludwig stopped short, almost falling in his haste; but he was smooth and suave. He never collapsed. He pulled open the door (and fleetingly remembered doing the same just a few doors down, to Matthew. It seemed so long ago now) and wasn't ready for the sight that greeted him.

Long hair released from its standard bun, Elizaveta was on her knees on the floor, leaning over an unmoving body. Her shirt was unbuttoned, the color of her lips compromised. She was the one shouting for assistance; she was the one so in need of help.

But wasn't this Roderich's room?

He turned around, embarrassed to see one of the females without her hair constricted. "Um, excuse me, but why… Are you alr—?"

"Oh, oh Officer Germany," Elizaveta cried, her tears very evident as she turned to face her superior. "He—he just fell down! I—I know I'm not supposed to be in here, and I can ex—explain later, but please! you've got to help him." Her fingers shakily attempted to button her shirt back up. Priorities conflicted, she flitted between doing that and rubbing Roderich's hair.

Ludwig didn't collapse, but apparently Roderich had.

His first response was mechanical. "I can't. There isn't a doctor, you see. I can't—"

"Just do _something_!" she pleaded, her hands exploring the pale and unconscious man's face, losing interest in her shirt, trying to find any beacon of life in his bleak expanses of skin.

Ludwig figured Gilbert wouldn't mind sharing the infirmary with his love-hate rival, and that was all he could do for the moment. So in a rush, his concern flooding through his blood, he bent beside Elizaveta and picked Roderich from the ground.

He was even lighter than expected.

"He's—he's lost his appetite over the last few days. Maybe that's why he fainted?" Elizaveta guessed, needing to fill the room with thin hope. "And he said he'd had headaches. That could be it, too…?"

Sticky sweat was on Roderich's hairline. His hair was limp and falling down like a waterfall from his head. His lips were lightly parted and discolored, and Ludwig had never felt so protective over him.

"You stay here, Officer Hungary," Ludwig demanded, staring at her. "Actually, no—get back to your room. I'll get back to you later, possibly. We'll discuss this offence then. And I beg of you, tie up your hair. You do not need anyone seeing you like this. Go back to sleep." His orders were more disorganized than usual… and he felt so sorry for her—her green eyes were just crying for sympathy, for answers—but he had to be professional.

Professional, professional, professional.

And he proceeded to carry Roderich out of that open door, leaving a worried mistress behind.

* * *

He nudged the infirmary's door open with his foot, slowly so it wouldn't make noise. (The lock, he found, was a bit faulty. It broke too easily, just three soft shoves with his heel and it fell loose.) And with the dead weight Ludwig was carrying, he had to be careful entering. He angled himself, knowing he couldn't bash anything of Roderich's against the walls… and finally, he made it into the dark infirmary; Gilbert was fast asleep on the opposite bed he placed Roderich on.

At least, he hoped his brother was asleep.

Oh, goodness, he hoped.

Ludwig took a moment to make Roderich appear comfortable on the stiff bed—because really, how could he honestly know how a comatose man was feeling, if anything at all? He placed a thin sheet over Roderich's body, then checked for a pulse; satisfied, he went to remove Roderich's shoes, the only comfort he could gift him. He gradually realized, however, that he hadn't encountered the B section shoelaces for years, and they were a lot stricter and a lot less shiny than as his own. He was unaccustomed to how they felt, how they worked. He was obviously surprised when the shoe abruptly came undone and fell to the ground.

It was loud, a foreboding echo in the twilight's silence.

It was loud enough to make his older brother start groaning from across the room.

Quickly, Ludwig pulled off the other boot (accidentally cracking one of Roderich's toes in the rush) and made a dash for the door, absoultely fearing the confrontation and thinking himself less for feeling so. But he was caught, caught by a rough voice that could barely manage his name.

"…Luddy…? That you?"

Ludwig stopped. Did he have a choice? No one would believe he'd been a simple trick of the light, a figment of the imagination. So Ludwig turned, letting Gilbert see his face.

"L—Luddy… hey." Gilbert's smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Who is that you brought with you?" he questioned, his eyes red lethargic slits that he turned to the side. He only saw the lanky form covered in shadows on the other bed. He couldn't identify it, not that he honestly tried to. When Ludwig wouldn't, couldn't answer, he asked with just a hint of stoic lethargy: "Not another Terror victim, I hope?"

Terror… The word reverberated within his heartbeats.

Terror…

Terror!

Ludwig felt the shock ride over his skin. That attack from earlier… it must have had Roderich's soul, and now Roderich was just as suspended as Gilbert!

What had he done?

But… there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. Nothing. He had to have given the order, he couldn't have thought twice… And now he couldn't fix it, couldn't heal… He looked over at Roderich and felt the sting of guilt blossoming. He wasn't sure how long he could let that sit.

He begged Vash, Alfred and Matthew to get back soon.

Gilbert smacked his lips together absently as he rolled onto his side. "Two down, hundreds to go…" He reached toward the table, picking up a small container filled with a purplish liquid.

Ludwig ignored his brother's little comment, his little quip about apocalyptic-sized death, immeasurable destruction. Better just to put those things under the rug, hm? Instead he asked, "What's that, Gil?" _What is that liquid? Where did you get it? Who gave it to you?_

Gilbert sighed, releasing a deep weight. "Vash gave it to me," he finally admitted. "Didn't want me to tell, since it's so experimental, but what can it hurt now? It's supposed to give me a few extra days. …Vash isn't like regular doctors," he assessed quietly; "He doesn't give you false hope. Only the facts."

Ludwig excused himself without a word. He might have left the door wide open in his preoccupation, so he might have left Gilbert staring at his retreating back, wondering where he'd went wrong.

Pacing the hallways like a lost and injured soul, all Ludwig wanted was to get back to his room and hide for a while. He wanted to explain the despair away by saying things were just getting too close, too personal for comfort. But why did that make him want to run? Why was he so desperate to get _away_ from Gilbert, from that reminder of impending sorrow?

He should be grateful for every moment he had with him.

Ludwig ignored his migraine and obsessively counted the rooms again as he hurried by. It made everything feel like normal, everything back in its place. He also checked in on Elizaveta, making sure she was in her room and alright; he had to assure her four times that Roderich was going to be fine, you don't have to worry, just please go back to sleep.

Finally, he was in the A wing, his home away from home.

It only took seconds: he stood at the lip of the hallway, and he watched his shadow stretch down the corridor, only to be interrupted by a bar of light and he knew—he _knew_—

Something else had gone wrong.

(In his absence, he realized. He wasn't sure if he could ever leave this place again.)

Ludwig wasn't sure exactly _what_ was wrong, but he was sure that the hallway wasn't as he had left it. His heart began to pound, nervousness settling in; then he saw it—the obscurity that rendered everything else void.

A door was open, swinging a bit into the hallway. And it hadn't been like that before.

Oh, no. What else could go wrong this morning? Why did he have to discipline someone? Why did they have to bother him? And all before three AM?

With a heavy sigh, he trudged over to the open doorway, reading the nametag just to see who he'd have to yell at for improper keeping of his room.

Feliciano.

Again?

Ludwig constantly had to remind Feliciano of the rules. For some reason, the redhead wasn't capable of remembering them _at all_. It had actually become a daily thing for Ludwig to check up on him.

Not that he completely minded… but now that Ludwig was aware of their… _past_… it might… make things… well… a bit more awkward. (At least on _his_ side. Feliciano was still blessedly unaware, if something like that could be considered lucky.)

He remained motionless in the hallway for quite a while, simply wanting to put off the encounter for as long as he possibly could. Interactions with Feliciano now drained him, since there was a tangible secret keeping them apart.

When he thought about it, he hadn't been able to visit Feliciano that morning, because of that large attack that had stretched on for days, and hadn't seen him around recently…

Sighing once more, he moved around the doorway and stood in the glow the room gave off, the one irregularity that threw everything off-kilter. "North Italy," he began, the lecture easy and accessible on his tongue; "Must I tell you _again_ that—" His pretenses fell, a rock into the ocean, never to be seen again; his breath was stolen from his lungs so sharply he nearly bent over. He'd never forget the image that burned like acid into his mind.

Across the floor, there were many different markers and pens strewn around like a broken rainbow. Feliciano was lying across it all, contorted on his side. There was a sketchbook lying by him, still warm from his fingertips. A fat yellow marker was listless in his unmoving left hand. His right hand was reaching out toward the door; it seemed he'd managed to open it, but had lost consciousness before actually leaving. Imagine that, staring salvation in the face only to be blinded.

Ludwig was on his knees in minute. He forgot the name barrier, forgot everything he'd tried so hard to protect. "Feliciano! Feli, please, talk to me! Wake up!" he shouted, pulling the form to his chest and imploring it with his eyes. "Feli!"

There were minutes that felt like hours but that were really just seconds in which everything was silent. Feliciano was nothing more than a corpse in Ludwig's arms. Unresponsive. Still.

Then, wide, auburn eyes were reduced to cloudy, narrow orbs. They were unfocused as they stared up at Ludwig's countenance, but they were as clear as a lighthouse in a winter storm. "Ve…?"

Oh, that sweet noise was a drooling moan. It hurt Ludwig's heart to hear.

"Feli, are you okay? What's wrong? What happened?" The darkness of the early morning danced around his head in fuzzy shapes.

Feliciano was disinclined for words. He rolled his head about, his neck keeping it unsupported. "I was just… drawing a picture… I know I'm not supposed to… I feel so sick… but now I can't breathe…"

"When did you start feeling sick?" he begged, thinking about Gilbert's words.

'_Not another Terror victim, I hope?_'

A hiccup. "A few days ago… Germany… But that wasn't bad… _now_ I feel bad…"

A few days ago: right when he'd had those Terrors destroyed.

A new weight crashed down on his shoulders.

Oh, what had he _done_?

With a newfound horror that was profound and forever immovable, Ludwig gave a yell and pulled him closer to his chest. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't feel bad," Feliciano drawled; "You shouldn't feel bad." He was peering up so innocently and touching his fingers to Ludwig's face, like Elizaveta had done to Roderich. "It's not your fault, ve…" And then he mumbled, seemingly off-hand, "I drew a pic… ture…" Then those eyes closed so suddenly as if they didn't plan on ever opening again.

Pic-ture…?

_Picture_?

With the body in his right hand, Ludwig moved and grabbed the sketchbook with his left. When he flipped it over, he was staring into his own reflection: his own milky blue eyes; his own dark wispy hair, slicked back; and his own tanned skin that stretched into his collar.

Someone's RR could hit them in many different ways, Gilbert had theorized; you could avoid the person, you could dote on the person… Feliciano seemed to have taken it in a different direction, preferring to deal with his symptoms alone, with nothing more than a pen and a few distorted memories.

Oh, Feliciano…

Oh, Feliciano…

_"Three down, hundreds to go…"_


	47. chapter fortysix

**CHAPTER FORTY-SIX**: (the doctor diagnoses a new sense of optimism)

Matthew's eyes were watering. He supposed he shouldn't be staring up at the sky, letting it touch him, letting it burn. But his head was so heavy that he didn't think he could lift it. Suddenly a shadow crossed by his sunlight; it was a bird, trekking across the wild open sky. It brought a pang of recognition into Matthew's chest: he thought of Gilbird, little fluffy Gilbird, and the man who owned him.

A man who was dying, because they hadn't made any progress. They were three days out, walking seemingly without end. As they stopped to catch their breath, Ludwig was making sure Feliciano was comfortable and Roderich was just beginning to wake up.

How had it gone so wrong?

They clutched at their stomachs, at their heads—Alfred's meager supplies had been finished hours before.

Matthew had found himself a neat, tall section of grass to lay on. It smelled like heaven and made him feel better: the sun, the wind, the ground. It was all so calm, so natural, it brought him to old places. Old memories. Afternoons in the park. Sunsets in the mountains, sunrise on the back porch.

Vash laid next to Matthew, and Matthew wondered where he was.

Steady footsteps reminded them that Alfred was still pacing. His feet didn't know how to stop, they kept moving, moving, and his mind responded in kind. His eyes flickered around, sure he was missing something.

Finally Alfred clenched his eyes shut, not able to take it anymore, and pressed his hands against his face. "We're not going to make it," he said, his muffled voice unnatural, disturbing in the silence. Matthew twitched as if bugs were flying in his face. "We're not—we can't—we should of… we should have asked Ludwig to give us a map." He pulled his hands away. "Even if it was wrong, it'd give us something to—oh, gosh, my stomach…!" He wrapped his arms around his torso, letting the growling of his stomach finish the conversation.

Matthew's stomach echoed in kind. He lurched up, curling forward to press his forehead against his knees. He cursed Alfred for reminding him. His mouth was incredibly dry as well, his lips very reluctant to speak: "No; no, Alfred, it wouldn't have made a difference. Besides, Ludwig doesn't have one, I'm sure. Why would he have one? The Superiors come to us, not the other way around."

The brothers waited for any other input; but Vash was silent. He'd sat up, following Matthew, but leaned against a tree near him. Alfred and Matthew figured that he'd fallen into another one of his trances—he did that quite often, getting lost in his thoughts—so they didn't question when his head fell to the side as he squinted into the distance.

Vash had never been one for conversation, anyway.

"It… it still would have been smart," Alfred insisted. He ran his tongue over his teeth—but the moisture had long been gone. His breath was suffering, teetering on the edge of non-existence. The sun, the _sun_ and its heat were forcing everything out of him. Eventually, he thought, his mind would go, too.

Matthew simply moaned louder and wildly shook his head. He thought of Gilbert and complete and utter failure. "No, no; this can't be happening! Why?" He began to cry; the liquid on his face felt so odd. He continued to let it fall, just because he couldn't believe it was there. Hadn't he been so strong? Why couldn't he keep that up? "Gilbert's probably… he's probably… I can't even say it! And all because I can't…"

"Mattie," Alfred said, moving toward his brother, and rolling his eyes affectionately. "Don't think about that. Don't think about anything, actually—it'll probably be helpful if you clear your head right now… " He looked out into the wilderness, into the slowly descending sun. "…we're going to have to start walking again."

"But… but…" Matthew wiped at his eyes. He was strong, he was, he was. It was the heat getting to him, nothing more than that. "But your feet are _bleeding_," he managed to convey, tilting his head up to stare at his brother, eyes shining. They infuriated and irritated each other to no end, but they cared about each other more than could over be possible, and this experience together was deepening that.

Alfred waved a hand. "Side-effect. Nothing to worry about," he said with a smile.

Matthew patted Alfred's shoulder, softly mimicking the smile. Suddenly, a fear ran through him, heightened by the stretch of his lips.

That was it. All of their hope was gone, that was the start; they'd spend the rest of their lives wandering these woods until they finally collapsed. Gilbert would be so, so disappointed until he couldn't feel anything anymore. And for what?

They were all going to die for nothing.

Alfred sensed that paralyzing panic rising in his brother's eyes. He shook Matthew by the arm, bringing his attention away from the morose. He was going to begin a thoughtless, fast speech to reassure him, but he got distracted by Vash.

Vash's attention had focused, and he was opening and closing his mouth. Alfred couldn't tell what he was doing; neither could Matthew, when he stopped to look.

It turned out he was trying to speak. "Is… is that…?"

"What?" asked Alfred, rolling his shoulders as he sat on his haunches.

Matthew strayed away from his bitter musings, trying to distract himself with figuring out the look in Vash's eyes. It was closed off, and was so far away, but it seemed… familiar, that spark.

"I might be wrong, but…" Vash hummed. His eyes were clearer. "I think that's pavement I see, out there…"

Hope. That was it. It exploded between them like fireworks.

In fervor, Alfred was up on his feet, trying not to stumble. He sat down beside Vash, up against his side. He squinted severely, getting at Vash's eye level. "What? Where, Vash?" he asked, quickly.

Matthew stood up, craning his neck to see over the bushes to any civilization. But all the colors blurred; he saw green and brown, but not much else.

"Out there," Vash said vaguely, still a bit too tired to move. He was preventing the hope from infecting him, a perfected self-protective defense. "It's black—like a road, maybe. And if there's a road, there's probably people, buildings…"

"An HQ," Matthew mumbled as he kept looking.

The brothers were blind. Completely blind, barely able to distinguish the trees around them. But they were faithful. "Vash, you're a genius," Alfred sighed, though he hadn't spotted anything yet.

"…As I've been told." Vash had risen to his knees, slowly. Every movement he performed shook.

Suddenly, a burst of color. A car sped down that faraway road—the brothers could see it because of its extraordinary brilliance: its clear shade of yellow, standing out like sunshine on a cloudy day.

It was real.

They were close.

Matthew broke out in a grin, even though he was sure it was out of pure deliria alone.


	48. chapter fortyseven

**CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN**: (beats of a troubled heart)

Unconsciousness was at every corner of his sight, focusing him, dragging him down, suffocating him in fatigue. Ludwig hadn't slept, and probably wouldn't for a while; three of the closest people to him were dying: could you blame him?

And to add to it, he still had another issue hanging above his head. He wanted to ignore it. He really did. He just wanted to pass by and pretend it had never happened in the first place—but that would mean letting something slip past; and he never allowed that. So Ludwig called Elizaveta to his office that next morning, gruesome and drowsy and exhausted.

There was a tender knock on his door. She slowly pushed it open and peered through the crack as timidly Ludwig knew she wasn't. It was abnormal for him to see her so quiet, but he supposed the power he held could suppress anyone's natural desires.

"Um—Officer Germany?" she said, quiet, reluctant.

"Yes."

"You wanted to see me?" She was prolonging the inevitable, her eyes watering. She shifted her feet and looked at the ground.

"Yes, yes. Get in here, Hungary. I don't have that much time," he lied, nodding his head toward her. He had all the time left in the world, he supposed.

Elizaveta started, and slid into the room as seamlessly as possible. As she shut the door, she blended in with the shadows (Ludwig had a headache; the dimmed lighting helped him) and tried to remain there for a moment.

"No, _in here_ in here—sit. Sit, please." He motioned to the chair before him, suddenly struck by it. He could remember propping an unconscious Matthew in it just a few days prior, when Ludwig himself had been so sick. He blinked away his worries and looked at Hungary—_Elizaveta_.

Her bottom lip had begun to quiver, increasing Ludwig's usually dulled curiosity—something really bad must have had happened that night to get such a reaction out of her… She walked toward the singular chair, her veins running cold when she saw dried blood on the floor. He could only stutter in response. She glanced up to Ludwig, and then, like a criminal to a hanging, accepted her fate. She sat down.

Elizaveta's hair was tied in a bun behind her head, just like he'd told her, something he regretted now. It was so pretty when it was free, like everything else was. He hadn't had a thought like that in what felt like years.

"So what happened before Austria had that fainting spell?" he began, deciding to talk before she began to panic. He had told her, simply, that Roderich had passed out from exhaustion and lack of nutrition. Not entirely false, but. Roderich was better now, if anyone _could_ get better, but he'd made up some sort of law preventing her from seeing him. He hated himself sometimes.

Fearfully, Elizaveta swallowed, smothering her hands between her thighs. Her shoulders slouched, forming a barrier for her head. Her eyes, moist, never met his directly.

As she scrambled for words, Ludwig watched her and felt a deep weight within him. He was used to an audacious, courageous Elizaveta—not a frail-seeming woman who appeared to be afraid of anything bigger than her. This woman, in this time, was terrifying to him. He couldn't believe he'd let her stay like that—so restricted, so contained—for so long.

She used to dress him up in frilly things.

"Um—um, well, y-you see, Officer… I…" She held open her mouth, her breaths passing sharply between her lips, and seemed lost. Then a familiar spark ignited in her eyes and she admitted, "I know it's forbidden, but Austria… Austria and I…" She climbed over a last pile of distress. "We've been committing sexual relations. I'm so sorry!" Despite her apologies, she held her head high and seemed proud for her confession, her honesty. (If her shoulders trembled, so afraid of him she was, no one noticed much.)

There was a moment of silence, where he simply stared, wondering if there was a joke. He'd forgotten. Of course he had. With the flush of new memories, he found nothing wrong. What was so bad about that? Weren't they married? So why had she suddenly burst to tears?

But, oh, it hit him like a migraine. In the station, intimate relationships between _anyone_ were strictly prohibited. It was said (by who is not stated) that it distracted people from the work at hand; the consequence, though it had never had to be executed, was banishment.

Because of this people rarely touched one another's skin; in fear, in cowardice, possibly the Relations Reflex coming into play.

Ludwig was quiet for quite a while.

Elizaveta muttered into the silence, "It's been going on for the past few weeks, during after-hours, usually in his room. And that's why my hair was out of order. But it's—" He looked up at her in surprise, interest lining his brow. It was her old spark, her fight, washing over her. But in a collect of breath that seemed all too natural, she suppressed it. She sighed, "I'm so sorry, Officer. It won't happen again."

Ludwig remembered something else, as he pretended to consider her offence – wasn't there something going on between Roderich and _Vash_, or was he just…?

No; there was something. He remembered that the two shared an awkward friendship that had changed from romantic to platonic constantly, and last he'd heard, they were simply friends.

So Roderich had gone back to Elizaveta…

Or was it just that he couldn't find Vash?

Ludwig didn't know. And he had no right to be thinking about it.

He came back to the present, looking over her unsteady form. He doubted that she was crying anymore, but she was cowering in on herself, waiting, despairing. Feeling like a tired god with all the power in his hands, he stared at her, his eyes glazed over.

What to do with her…?


	49. chapter fortyeight

**CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT**: (the HQ)

There it was. Nine stories of robotic façade, towering over them. It loomed like a nightmare and was silhouetted against the anxious moon. It was constructed from careful glass windows that gleamed gold in the darkness. Every pane was so clear it seemed the building was only a mirage, something they'd collectively fancied in response to their diminishing hopes. Before them, only five feet away, were sliding doors, frosty and distant.

The Superior's Head-Quarters.

They could run in, if they'd want to.

No one moved.

There was no fence, no guards, no alarm system (having one would mean there would sometimes be cause for alarm)—so, ideally, it was vulnerable. Indomitable, but vulnerable; ready for the taking, almost begging them to infiltrate. They, exhausted from their long journey and weak from an insatiable hunger, felt the urge to destroy rise deep within their spines. But there was a bit of fear in them, a thread of sorts that tied them together and to the spot.

Matthew heavily cleared his throat. The noise startled his fellow travelers. He tugged against his collar. He asked, "So you, um, are you, ah, ready?"

Alfred looked intimidated. He didn't respond.

"Can we go over the plan again?" Vash said, mumbling; he spoke as if his lips were made of glue. "With that major headache from earlier I—I might have just forgotten some parts."

Matthew glanced at Alfred. His brother didn't move. He tried to reassure Vash: "All you have to do," Matthew told him, still looking for any signs of life in Alfred, "is get to the right wing of the building. It's the right wing, Alfred? It's, uh, where the Superiors are meeting, is that right Al?"

His brother was still silent, not responding to his name.

"Pretend to be wounded or mentally ill," Matthew continued, trying to sound like a wise leader, a respected teacher. "Gilbert was always good at that." He'd said it before he could stop himself, so he made sure to laugh, made sure to sound fond. "By, um, by doing so, hopefully you'll get their attention. Then you'll have to try and keep it for as long as possible, while Al and I do our thing. Since you have your uniform on, they'll be more likely not to simply throw you out, trust me," _Trust me._ As if he was sure of anything. What matter did it make, what they wore?

Swallowing, Matthew looked down at his hands. They had begun to shake. He turned them into fists, suddenly irritated. "Alfred, come on, man. Speak. We're all nervous."

In fact, Vash had stiffened, his eyes faraway, trying to think of a whole skit to play out in front of people way, way bigger than him.

There was cotton in Alfred's throat, something he grew embarrassed of. He tried a few times and finally managed to speak around it. "I—I just can't believe I ever thought this building was amazing. When they took me here for the first time, I remember thinking, 'How impressive!' Tch, I was so criminally naïve, wasn't I?"

Matthew didn't know what to say. There was a smile tugging at his lips he wasn't sure he could let loose. "Sort of," Matthew joked, putting a hand to his brother's shoulder, trying to reignite their familiar bond. There was nary a spark. "So come on, we're losing time. We can do this, guys. We can do this." Since when could he rally souls? Since when was he so assured as to lead?

Shaking his head, Alfred seemed to fill with vibrancy. His eyes came alive, his smile was confident and brilliant. He looked like the leader they needed, just in time. "Right. Okay. We can do this, Matt!" He looked at him and made a fist. "Don't doubt yourself!"

Matthew stood straight beside him, proud and willing. "Never again, Al!"

Vash frowned, not catching onto their sudden energy; he inched closer to them, trying to feed off of it. "Um—yes, alright. Alright."

They approached the doors together, step by step, closer and closer to the fight for their lives.

As soon as Vash's booted foot hit the tiled flooring within, his body caught and he fell to his knees.


	50. chapter fortynine

**CHAPTER FORTY-NINE**: (rules of the status quo)

"Vash?" Matthew asked, under his breath, in concern. The bright lights created a distinct blurriness around him; it was as if he'd been thrust into a whole other dimension leaving him queasy and off-center. He supposed Vash had picked up on the sentiment too. He looked around quickly; saw the lobby to be free of people—no one could see his ally's little slip. Sliding his hand under Vash's arm, he tried to pull him up, but Vash pushed him away without so much as a word.

"He's getting in character, you want him to act stupid or hurt, remember?" Alfred reminded him, an edge to his voice. "Shush!" He pulled his brother closer to him. "We're going to let him go first, and then we'll go in the opposite direction."

After Alfred had passed through the doors, he had shed his apprehension – it had crumbled off of his shoulders in stones and been left outside. Now he was confident, he was professional, an A section prodigy—_he_ was their leader.

Matthew was reassured by this, by a strong vice he could rely on, until he began to hear footfalls. A shudder of fear riddled his mind, rose his hair; he turned his eyes like lasers in the direction of the noise.

Vash was long gone.

Alfred let go of his brother; physical contact was not healthy at the moment. It could fall to either extreme.

Just as Alfred had began to harden, to lose all of his emotion and become solid, Matthew had began to quiver and have trouble breathing. Just as he'd expected, he supposed; all that fake bravado he'd put up in front of everyone else had no competition against the real danger. Matthew felt like a failure and he knew it showed.

Alfred glanced at his brother, concerned for the both of them, just as the corridor's shadows had morphed into very tall people. They slid seamlessly out from the darkness, wearing black uniforms, exactly like Alfred's own; but they had rows and rows of medals on their chests, gleaming like triumphant, well-deserved jewels.

The only adornment Alfred wore was a little pin above his heart. It was shaped like an apple.

The duo stopped before them. They wore hats that hid their eyes. "State your business," said the taller one, on the left; his voice was deep, but held a particular uncertainty, as if he hadn't done this before.

Matthew swallowed and looked down. He heard nothing but silence for a moment, ringing loudly in his ears; he wondered how Vash was doing, if he'd been spotted yet. He knew his ally could only fake it for so long—he and Alfred would have to make good time, and wasting it in formalities would not bode well.

Alfred looked carefully bored and said, "One of our planes recently showed dysfunction and we're here to see if we could get the piece needed to get it back on track. It's our favorite plane, you see."

Looking between them, a frown on his lips, the man did not comment. He instead asked, "Where are you from?" He pulled out a clipboard, supposedly attached to his hip. There was a thick pile of paper underneath the clasp, containing information that they could only guess at.

_Where were they from?_ They didn't know! They'd only recently found out themselves! Matthew's repressed panic began to bubble over. His eyes darted around. He didn't know the districts or areas of this reinvented Earth… He didn't honestly care, but it seemed as if his ability to answer was the crossroad of their fate. Oh, no, no, no… He began to worry. He raised a hand to nudge Alfred when his brother's pared voice stopped him.

"East district," Alfred said dully, barely sparing a breath; "neighborhood eight, section five." His lips were pressed together; his eyes didn't stray and refused to meet purple.

The shock that sprinkled over Matthew's system shook him to the core. What? How did Alfred…? Quite possibly, was that information key to the A section? Was there a whole map in his head; were there more stations just like theirs? He couldn't help passing new eyes over his brother. Did he know more about this new world than he let on?

Silence, like a heavy blade, pressed against their throats. As the man flipped through the pages of his clipboard, the blade was so tangible: the response to Alfred's information would help or harm them; send that blade cutting or take it all away.

There was a moment. A breath. A pause. "…We just sent a shipload of parts to E.8.5 an hour ago," the officer said, looking to Alfred with eyes clouded in suspicion.

That had been that yellow truck they had seen in the distance, on that road, Matthew figured; the same one that had resurged their hopes was also what would damn them. It'd been sending parts to their section, sending twin lambs to slaughter.

Matthew felt like he was bleeding profusely, the room going dim and spinning.

They were caught!

His heart was erratic and he prepared to fight, but Alfred—

Alfred, still as professional as before, regarded the duo coolly, "That is true, officer. But what we need is a revolver chamber, a part, which you should know, is very hard to come across. In all likeliness, there was not a revolver chamber in that shipment. As such, I'm requesting you lead us to storage, where we will get one ourselves. It shouldn't be much trouble, seeing that, at most, the two of you should at least know the layout of your location." Alfred ended with a grimace and a critical look over of the men. He was acting as superior as he wasn't, as superior as he was supposed to be.

This wasn't Alfred.

It was America. The man Matthew knew before they'd gotten their memories back. The confident, if cold, leader, who rarely second-guessed himself and those around him. Even if they were back to their original selves, those personas they'd adopted had a way of creeping up on them. It made Matthew shudder. How much of Alfred was a soldier after all?

America glanced between the officers, assessing their name-tags with no particular interest. "Surely that wouldn't be a problem, Officers Singapore and Malaysia?"

Luckily for them, the other men seemed to be rather cowardly in the face of power. New to the job, then. The one with the clipboard—Singapore—fumbled. "Of—of course. That's fine, officer. This way, if you please." They turned on their heels, and began leading them into the hallway they'd come down.

It was too easy, Matthew thought. They faded into the shadows of the corridor. It was dimly lit, the few lights flickering and broken.

"Al, what's a revolver chamber?" Matthew risked, murmuring close to his brother's head.

Alfred had lowered his hat so that the very tip touched his nose. He moved like a robot, staring at his feet as they worked. Right, left, right, left, right, left. "It's the part of our planes," he began, in a slow and deliberate whisper, "that sends out the bullets that eliminate the Terrors. It rarely breaks down, since it's powered separately."

Matthew stiffened.

The other officers had managed to overhear. Malaysia laughed arrogantly, twisting his head to meet Alfred's eyes. "Boy, you've got to lug around an incompetent C with you that doesn't even know the parts? What bet did you lose?"

"No," Matthew said, annoyed. It was the first word he'd spoken to them, and it came out like sandpaper. He hoped that made it threatening. "I'm B. It's clear by my uniform. And I'm not—"

The laughter only increased; Singapore joined. "Oh, you're pretty slow, aren't you?"

With only a telling glance to his sibling, Alfred told them, "Just pretend he's not here. It's what I do."

They laughed.

Matthew tried not to be offended.

But found it really hard.

Suddenly, Singapore slowed his pace. His watch had begun to beep, a small red light alerting them to some distress. The officers looked confused, then looked at each other; "Wait here," said one of them, stopping Alfred and Matthew. The soldiers continued walking, saying over their shoulder, "We just need to check on something."

They left them there, in the middle of the hallway; they were perplexed, but also a bit relieved. They stole a moment to breathe before Alfred turned to his brother. He spoke in a rush:

"Mattie, I'm incredibly sorry. These assholes think they're so tough. And—and I have to play their game if I want to remain inconspicuous. It's always been a part of being in the A section," he commented, seeming exasperated, "thinking that you're so much better than anyone else, only because you've got a darker uniform. It's all a big joke. And I don't know about these jerks, but I'm not so sure they're even as important as a C if you put them together."

Was that why Gilbert never wanted him in the A section? Because it was a terrible, terrible game?

Or was it too real, a vicious competition in the midst of fakery?

Matthew wanted to ask more questions about what Alfred knew; he wanted to say something at all. But the door swung open, and Alfred broke their eye contact.

"Sorry about that," said Singapore, looking flustered. "Status is telling us there's some sort of freak in the MC causing a ruckus. They want people down there to help control the situation." He seemed excited, eager to move. "Now, we don't normally do this, but we'll let you go down to the storage room yourself and we'll have to trust you to leave right after that, alright?

"Just keep following this hallway, take the first left, and then it's the third door to your right. You can't miss it. Be orderly, okay?" And then they left, hurrying back toward the entrance.

When their footsteps had faded, when they were left with nothing more than the hum of far-off machinery, Matthew sighed. It was like pressing water against stone, a vividly human noise: "Vash," he emitted, anxious. "Man, we're getting really pressed for time." They walked with a purpose down the hallways, their postures mirrored. They didn't look at one another. "What's the MC, Al?" he asked as they moved.

Alfred chuckled. "No idea, bro. No idea! Even if it sounds like Vash got lost, at least he accomplished what he needed to—getting all of the people here in the same place. They have no idea…" He laughed lowly to himself, tasting the first hints of revenge.

Wind from their quick flight was threading through their hair. They felt weightless. "You know where the room is, right, Al?"

"Couldn't forget it if I tried."

They weren't talking about Storage Room.


	51. chapter fifty

**CHAPTER FIFTY**: (zero is taken and four is indebted to cardboard boxes)

They passed the Storage Room. It was a tall red door and nothing more than a blur. Alfred said, "Alright, it's right down here, okay? I'm sure of it. Just a few more paces. Come on Matthew, we can do it!"

Matthew was worried that their shoes were too loud; their inhales too grating, their exhales too deep. Matthew found himself holding his breath.

They were running—trying to find _it_ before someone else found _them_. Panic was awash; the hysteria of the moment was becoming more evident. Even a slip could undo them: just a word, spoken too loudly; or just a laugh of victory could send the triumph slipping like glass.

_Everything_ depended on it.

"Whoa, wait, wait, wait," Alfred suddenly exclaimed, coming to a stop and then turning back. He stood before a wide set of green double doors. "This is it," he stated, pressing his palm to the exterior. He was breathless in his excitement, he looked struck, awed, and he shivered. "Good 'ol Control Center—where would we be without it?"

"Okay," Matthew gasped, "since you know the room, I guess, I'll keep watch while you flick the switch. Just—just hurry, please?" He tapped his fingers against the smooth wall. In response to Alfred's glee, he was getting more anxious.

"Gotcha," Alfred said, opening the door. It was unlocked; so Vash must have been able to really attract everyone's attention. Even the people running the whole world had left to see what his problem was.

Matthew walked into the threshold of the room, not wanting to be seen from the hallway.

Humongous, the room stretched tens of feet over their heads. There was one huge computer monitor in the middle of the back wall with two smaller ones on either side of it. Then a keyboard set-up was situated below it, taking up the room corner to corner, punctuated with a few swiveling chairs. Adjacent to the keyboard were two large cylinders with vertical beds held within.

Alfred approached these first, foregoing the mechanics to stare into his reflection on the glass with something short of cruelty. "They tied us in here, me and Germany; we were so dosed up with something we could barely see, but this… this was when I first started to feel afraid, a fear deep within me that I guess… never left." He looked down and clenched his fingers, and took a deep breath from his nose. "I'll show them," he said, before turning back to the room.

The room was intimidating, with the whitewashed walls and the lack of anything seemingly human. It lacked a physical touch, and it all looked so mechanically complicated…

Matthew took all of Alfred's words and catalogued them. He had questions, but no time. "Al, can you really figure this all out?" he hissed under his breath, as his brother moved quietly across the floor to stand in front of the keyboard.

"Yes; of course. I listened to what they were saying when they didn't think I was paying attention, when they didn't think I could hear," he mumbled vaguely, his eyes flashing as he took in all of the lights, gadgets, buttons and levers that bulged up toward him. Each of them fought for his attention. Alfred had to lean close—what with his vision's tendency to mash colors together—to see; but doing so only served to focus him further. His hands hovered, preparing to activate the one switch that he knew would reverse the effects of their so-called new world.

If he could distinguish it amongst the other unlabeled things, then everyone would be home free.

They didn't know what would happen—they just knew they had to reset everything. (Alfred remembered a conversation he'd overheard so long ago, about them keeping a safeguard around in case the new world created with the safety-net group wasn't satisfactory. This was what he was searching for.)

The consequences were unidentified; they didn't know what the previous leader intended when they said 'reset': the world could simply blow up. They could be transported back in time, to before all of this had occurred; or it could do nothing, absolutely nothing, and the fight would be in vain.

Gilbert, Roderich, and others they weren't even aware of would parish; themselves, too.

But they were willing to take the chance just to get back to where they longed—and deserved—to be, with the people they longed to be with again. It'd be worth it, and that was all they were really sure of.

"I think this is it," Alfred breathed, moving around a collection of five or so large cardboard boxes on the ground. His weak eyes scanned over a wide lever of green. It was hidden behind a clear glass container, in the corner of the keyboard. It was too familiar to him; it radiated importance.

He knew that was it.

Matthew's eyes lit up, watching the thrill that animated Alfred's body then. That was it—the green lever. They had it! All they had to do was activate it, and hope for the best!

Goodness, the pleasure at the chance of relinquishment was gripping him hard, enwrapping him, securing him… He closed his eyes for just a moment—

And before he even had the chance to see it, large and calloused hands came around the peripherals of his vision, and before he could even move, something thin and deadly was pressed like metal to his throat.

He yelled, just so that his brother could realize that yes, something had actually gone wrong.

Faster than he'd ever witnessed, Alfred fell to his hands and knees. He was hidden behind the mass of cardboard boxes and under the keyboard in an instant; the ominous lever was right above his head.

Matthew couldn't even see him.

Matthew remained most alert to the thing against his skin…

It was sopping wet, absolutely dripping in some sort of… _liquid_…

He glanced downward. A dark brown fabric was lightly restricting his airways. (He could gasp tiny breaths, but he knew it wouldn't last for long.)

He couldn't place what the liquid was until a fat drop of it rolled from the surface and began to crawl down his neck, as slow and as sure as a spider; it was tepid and danced down his collarbone. He shuddered violently as it went under his shirt and over his chest.

It was red.

Blood red.

It was blood.

His mind began a physical subtraction, something beyond his control, something to distract him. Brown minus red… what was this object clasped around his neck that was brown minus red?! If he could identify it, maybe—

Green.

It hit him like sledgehammer. The pounding of his heart started loudly in his ears.

It was green.

He didn't know how he figured it, but he suddenly knew…

It was Lilly's ribbon, absolutely soaked to the contours with blood.

Fresh blood, by the overpowering scent of it.

Matthew began to squirm against the thread, but it was hard to move. The limited oxygen he was getting made his head swim. "I swear," he screamed, his voice rising and rising, "if you've hurt her, I will—" But he was forced to stop, because whoever was holding that precious item to his skin suddenly pulled it so much tighter, using all of their strength.

It was getting dangerous—now he was losing track of his thoughts. And Alfred was forced to watch all of it; he'd better not do anything _stupid_—

"Don't worry about her," snarled whoever was behind him, the clearly masculine voice like fluid arsenic. "She won't be hurting anymore—I say we've roughed her up enough."

Matthew choked, his fingers wrapping around the ribbon, between the fabric and his skin. Maybe he could try and rip it; he wasn't sure if he could with such lightheaded awareness, but—

But he couldn't.

He just… couldn't.

He couldn't tear this valued thing! It reminded him too much of the girl that owned it…

_It was as if he was personally ruining her innocence._

Spots of darkness began to rise against his eyes.

"Sleep well," said the person, giving one harsh, final tug.

The last thing Matthew saw were his brother's enlarged and frightened eyes peering like lightening bugs from under the control desk.

_I felt it_

_The wire touched my neck and_

_Then someone pulled it tighter_

_I never saw it coming_

_I started to black out…_


	52. chapter fiftyone

**CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE**: (zero is a hostage)

_…And then someone said, "Good morning."_

_I took it as a warning_

_I should have seen it coming_

Hammering against his ribs was his heart; it was on overdrive, filled with not blood but fear. He blinked wearily, hearing a multitude of voices, and suddenly seized up. He—he couldn't let them know he was awake. He didn't want to. He just wanted to pretend to be asleep for a little longer, just a bit of respite… Maybe they'd spill out their plans for him, and he'd be able to learn and avoid them. That was it, self-survival.

His muscles twitched. He was bound at the wrists, and Lilly's blood was still staining his neck.

Matthew nearly jumped when they began to talk again, louder, but fortunately for him, his shock only registered as a small twitch in his face, which was pressed to the table and turned away, unnoticed.

"Are you sure you didn't kill him?" said someone.

"Positive. Unless he's more of a wimp than he looks." He felt a shiver he was barely able to suppress. It was the man's voice; the man who'd knocked him out.

A third voice chimed in. "I don't know… he should have woken up by now, don't you think?"

"We'll be in deep if he's dead, you know that, right?" responded the first voice. "He's—he's possibly a material witness! He might ha—"

"Shut up, guys," said the voice of terror; "I've never messed up before; why would I start now?"

Matthew didn't know who, but someone came toward him and pressed extremely cold fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse. But that contact was so frigid and unexpected that he reeled, a breath inhaling itself very acutely.

He knew he was caught. He sat up in his seat, eyes roaring. Matthew had lost the cool he'd gained whilst motionless; he looked between every single man evenly as he spat, "Okay, I demand to know what you did to Lil—Lichtenstein and where she is right now."

One, a platinum blond, was standing before him. He had been the one who'd touched his neck. He looked just that cold.

Two brunettes were to his left, leaning against the wall, in front of the singular exit.

They smirked at him, their twin smiles like impending gunfire.

"And why in the world are you hurting her?!" he yelled, when they didn't respond to him.

The blond blew hair out of his eyes. "She was our only connection until now, you understand, Canada."

This man had been the one to strangle him. He seemed as tall as a building and roughly constructed, almost uneven due to his weight.

And this man knew his name.

Matthew felt sick.

"Connection?" He took a moment to breathe; his throat rebelled against everything he tried. "What are you talking about?!" He clenched his toes in his boots, ready to kick if they got any closer. He read the man's nametag: Jordan, it said.

Jordan shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the situation. "Simple. We're trying to get to someone, and we think she knows where the person is. She wouldn't talk, so we tried to force it out of her."

"It was a lot of fun, too," quipped one of the brunettes.

"Quite a pretty thing. It was great to see her scream," said the other.

Matthew's fingers arched. He suffered the unfamiliar, reoccurring sensation of rage.

"Syria, Iraq," Jordan disciplined them accordingly; by name, it seemed. Jordan was clearly the head—he put his hand up, and the brunettes shushed. "Anyway, Canada. We saw there was someone loitering. We had come to kill them, but—we got orders saying that you might have some information for us… You might know where our target is—and if you were to rely his location to us… we won't tell anyone that you were here against protocol, and we could let little Lichtenstein lonesome go!"

Matthew swallowed, feeling the burn. They musn't have seen Alfred yet; they must have only recognized one person and figured it was Matthew when they'd seen him. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before. People would either confuse him for his brother or not see him at all. He sighed, furrowing his eyebrows as he stared at the table.

_Target_? Who were they trying to get at? And how did Matthew and Lilly know this person?

He coughed, feeling wretched. His throat was so sore; he began to feel tears stinging at his eyes. "Can I—Could I at least have some water?" He looked up at Jordan and added, "Please," bitingly.

"Not until you tell us where our target is," said Syria.

Matthew scowled. "I honestly have _no idea_ who you're talking about!"

Jordan watched him evenly; his dark eyes tiny slits against the failing light. "That's confidential. Here, I'll give you a few hints: this person is wanted for treason. He has been conducting illegal experiments and we want him_found_. Do you understand me? Does that sound like anyone to you? Don't tell me you're stupid as well as weak."

He was offended, and pursed his lips tightly. Refusing to speak, he nearly glared.

His mind was reeling, however. Who in the world could he be talking about? He knew they'd taken Lilly, now, because of her position; with her line of work, she'd meet everyone almost intimately. She could know some secrets. He would think it actually pretty smart, if he wasn't so angry. But what about _him_? Were they just interrogating him on the pure chance he'd heard some rumor? There wasn't anything he could think of. But then again, he realized with a bit of pain, how well did he really know anyone anymore?

Everyone else were distant facsimiles of their olds selves; everyone else were just foggy memories, except…

Except for Gilbert.

And on the off-chance that they were talking about Gilbert, they were devastatingly wrong and would get absolutely nothing from him.

With a heavy sigh, Jordan explained: "Listen here, Canada. We don't want to hurt you! We just need you to comply with what we're asking. When you give us the information we need, any information at all really, you're free to go—and, too, I guess, you can take Lichtenstein with you. Doesn't that sound dandy?

"Now." Jordan placed his hands on the table before him, entrapping him between them. "Where is our target?"

"_I have no idea who you're talking about_!" Matthew shrieked into his face. Instantly, he regretted it; raw flames of red pain began engulfing his throat. He could just imagine the torn flesh… The pain made him concave and press his forehead to the table, trying to focus on anything but the blood pooling in the column of his neck.

Jordan sighed, and looking to his coworkers, said, "Is Lichtenstein conscious yet?"

Matthew's mind stopped. He opened his eyes. What do you mean _is she conscious_—

"I'm not sure," Iraq replied.

"Okay. Well, go get her anyway—maybe if Canada sees what we can and _will_ do to him if he keeps the information to himself he'll be a bit more willing to talk." Those eyes were sharpened daggers on his skin. A poison smile formed from his blood-red lips.

"No—no," Matthew hurriedly exclaimed. He managed to raise his head centimeters to plead with him, forgetting the pain of speaking. He wouldn't be able to survive seeing a harmless angel bloody, unconscious, and abused. "Please… I don't want to see her."

"What, why? You'd be the safest interaction she's had in seven days!" Syria crooned. He unknowingly gave away too much information in his words. Syria was speaking for the joke of it. The implications passed him.

Seven days… They'd had Lilly for seven days. If Matthew's inner clock was right, a week ago was when he, his brother, Vash and Ludwig had gathered in Gilbert's meeting room and discussed this doomed plan…

It resounded like a gunshot in his mind; they would have taken her then, when Vash wasn't there to protect her!

The bastards!

He actually said that aloud, "You bastards! _Kidnapping_?!"

They weren't the brightest bunch; they had no idea how he had come to that—albeit correct—conclusion.

The brunettes exchanged confused glances before Jordan gave them a vague hand signal; at that point, they slipped out to retrieve the girl, despite Matthew's protest.

So Matthew was left in large and dark room, with a tall blond who had murder in his eyes.

"Alright, Canada. This really shouldn't be so hard for you to understand. All we need is information. Freedom is in your reach—can't you see that?" He moved stealthily forward, like a predatory cat, and pressed his palms to the armrests on either side of Matthew's chair. He was too close, leaning over him. His coarse breath was ghosting over his face. "We'll begin desperate measures if need be, but I doubt you want that, right? If we can torture a little girl without shame imagine what we… would do… to _you_."

Matthew was silent, his face flushed in fury. He pressed close to the back of his seat, trying to get as far away from the man as possible.

Jordan suddenly scoffed. "What's wrong with you now?" His voice had changed. He wasn't a leader, a villain; he sounded nothing more than a playground bully. "What, is that ass Prussia the only one you're tough with—"

Way, way too personal. The lightest reference to Gilbert broke Matthew, the mere utterance of his name lit sparks in his brain. He took all of the emotions he'd felt in the last few minutes, hours, days, years, and sent it directly to his extremities. Then, in a flurry and with a shout, he sent his foot flying vertically, kicking the man directly between the legs.

Jordan slumped downward, a satisfying grunt ripping from him.

Matthew jumped from his seat. Luckily, he wasn't restrained to it. Never before had he been so violent or lost, but all of the training he'd had in the station finally caught up to him. Because he was handcuffed, he pressed his large boot to the man's throat, applying just enough pressure for discomfort. "I have no idea who the hell you are or what you're trying to do," he growled, staring at the ceiling lights, watching his patience drift away from, "but I'll bring an end to it if it's the last thing I do." As he began to compress harder, tight hands wrapped around his ankle and threw him to the ground.

Strong enough to flip him over, Jordan had the advantage.

Matthew's back slammed against the forlorn chair; both he and it tumbled backward until they hit the wall. He was momentarily stunned and Jordan approached him.

"What gives you the arrogance to attack someone who is—?"

By the end of the fragment, Matthew had regained his composure and aimed a clear kick to the blond's midsection, hitting organs he knew he'd bruised. As the other man was down, he got to his feet and hurried to the doorway.

He glanced behind him; Jordan had hit his head against the opposite wall, and was passed out.

Well, his luck was looking up!

That was especially so when he realized that the door was cracked a bit—one of the stupid brunettes must have forgotten to close it!

He grinned quite malevolently, losing himself while passing through the doorway in a wind.

Matthew's priorities played themselves repeatedly through his head as he ran:

Lilly, Alfred, Vash. Lilly, Alfred, Vash. Lilly, Alfred, Va—

Directly before him, the twin brunettes were carrying his first priority between them. She was crying out, but not fighting. Strings kept her wrists against one another, and they were bloody and scabbed over. Her green eyes were very vibrant against her dark and bloodied face, and they shined in radiance. She was a survivor, though weren't they all.

Matthew's initial instinct came to him in a flood: _shout at them, scream at them, kick at them_; but an intelligent plan hit him before he could lose her.

The brunettes looked at him confusedly. "Hey, what are you doing?" Syria asked of him.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Lilly also had a cloth tied around her mouth so she couldn't speak. If she could have, she could have potentially compromised the situation.

"Your boss let me go. I finally told him what you guys needed to know," Matthew lied, looking as regretful as an unwilling traitor would. "I didn't want to feel his overpowering wrath."

Lilly, despite his attempts, broke at that very moment. She reared upward and abruptly began to thrash and scream behind the gag; tears poured from her eyes. Hysteria had seemed to suddenly come over her shoulders, as if she'd been holding back. Words tried to escape the stained cloth, but nothing was coherent. Matthew could make out:

"_No! … Why?_"

And he blinked, wishing he hadn't heard. Lilly knew who the target was. She'd figured it out. And now she thought Matthew was nothing more than a cheap-skate. He swallowed against the pain in his throat and looked at her, admiring the pure strength she had to keep such a secret for so long.

Matthew quickly tried to contain his composure. His eyes were watery; "He said… He said that, um, Lichtenstein and I are free to go, as long as you un-cuff me first." He put his wrists out for them to see. The metal gleamed, and he thought of Gilbert. He was doing this for _him_, to save _him_.

Syria held Lilly tightly, a bit too tightly, his hands like metal on her shoulders. The other brunette moved to unlock Matthew.

"Thank you so much," Iraq was saying, as he slipped the key into the lock. "You've very much helped us. It's not even our operation, would you believe it? We've only been assigned, so don't take it out on us. It wasn't so hard, right?"

It really hadn't been…

"No," said Matthew, pulling his hands to the front of him. The metal clinked against the ground as he rubbed his sore wrists. He glanced at Lilly's, and suddenly felt tired.

"Iraq, stop talking and let's get going," Syria snapped, letting the mass of girl tremble to the floor. She didn't even try to stand on her own.

Lilly was a sobbing mess when Matthew moved over to her.

"What's wrong with her?" asked Syria, looking at her oddly. "She's never cried like _that_ before…"

Matthew glared furiously. "Shut up," he demanded. He heard their retreating footsteps and took a long, deep breath. Now they had only moments before they'd find their boss, and come chasing after him. He placed a soothing arm around the girl's shoulders. He didn't want to touch any tender areas… With a cautiousness only a father figure could have, he encouraged her to stand. When she did, he smiled at her.

He then said into her ear: "Shh, calm down, calm down, Lilly. I'll explain everything to you when we're out of here."

Though she halted her struggling, and let him lead her from the hallway, large tears were still very steadily climbing down her face, as if they were dripping of their own accord. She was stiff and didn't look at him. He felt the sting of distrust, but he was sure it was all just a misunderstanding. Once she knew he hadn't said anything, she'd trust him again, right?

Side by side, they walked for roughly two minutes, and then Matthew found a doorway that led to the outside. He exited with her, placing a large rock to keep the door open.

They moved toward a gathering of bushes, and from there, Matthew began to relieve her from her bondages.

Her hair was matted. She was thin and shaking, clearly hungry and possibly dehydrated. There were so many gashes and wounds on her that Matthew couldn't even begin to guess where the blood on her ribbon had come from. Bruises lined her eyes and hands like stars; her dress was ripped in inappropriate places.

He worried over exactly what they'd done to her.

"Lilly, I'm so sorry," he apologized, pulling his uniformed jacket from his shoulders and putting it around hers. It was too big for her, covering everything necessary. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? What can I do for you?" He bent down in front of her, beginning to button up the jacket around her shaking form.

She was hiccupping, and for a while, she did only that; after a couple tense moments, she finally spoke. Her voice was soft and ragged, and he needed to lean close to hear her, so close he could also register her thudding heartbeat, like a stallion under her chest: "Can you just assure me… Mister Canada, sir… that you didn't really tell them where big brother Vash was?"


	53. chapter fiftytwo

**A/N: **I apologize for the mistake in chapters; it turns out I never posted Chapter Forty-Six. I have fixed this now; you might want to read that chapter then, it's not a big plot point, but it could come up later. Again, I'm really sorry, this is the new chapter.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO**: (protecting the innocent)

If anyone would have asked him how he'd felt, Matthew couldn't have described it to them. His brain had short-circuited. He felt acute electricity throughout his system, but nothing more.

His fingers stilled on the buttons of his coat, frozen by her haunting articulation. A cold breeze had suddenly formed, and maybe he was imagining it, but it chilled him to the bone. Matthew choked, "Wh… what was that, Lilly? I'm sorry…" He begged that he'd simply heard her wrong; that the stress had gone to his head, and it wasn't the doctor whom she referred to. It wasn't; it could't be.

Tears framed her darling eyes, but they refused to spill. She mumbled, "I… I was mad. Really mad. Vash was going to leave, he said he was going to go far away and he might not be back… I didn't want him to go. He's the only person I have!" Pressing her fingers to her mouth, reluctant to speak, she bowed her head. "So I avoided him, thinking that he wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to me. And if he never got to say goodbye, he'd never leave, right? But that night… I was in my room. I had just fallen asleep."

She stopped to breathe. "I didn't hear anything at first, but then my door opened. Which was scary, because I locked it in case Vash was trying to come in. So I thought maybe he'd messed with the lock, which made me mad again. I sat up in my bed to yell at him…" She faded.

Matthew's eyes ticked like twin clocks, calculating, terrified.

"…But it wasn't Vash. It wasn't Vash. It was this… this really big guy with blonde hair. I… almost thought it was Officer Germany—L-Ludwig—but it wasn't him, either. The big guy… he grabbed me by my shirt and he had this little grin on." Her eyebrows were furrowed, trying to make sense of it all. "He asked me, quietly, where the doctor was… They wanted the doctor, wanted to ask him some questions about some sort of trial, some sort of treason… But I couldn't tell him, 'cause I didn't know where Vash was.

"And I told him that, but he didn't believe me. He thought I was trying to protect Vash. Which, you know, I would have! But I didn't know, I didn't. So he pulled me out of my bed and I screamed." She was crying. "I—I guess I shouldn't have; he got really mad and picked me up. He held me and shook me and then someone else put their head in the door and smiled and had an idea… The guy said, 'Why don't we just take her?'" She mimicked the voice with a startling, sickly accuracy. She sounded like she was mocking the trauma of her life. "'The doctor'll have to come and find her, right?' And I got really, really scared. I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want Vash to have to find me, either."

He didn't want to hear any more. Emotions were clouding him. "Lilly…"

"So the big guy grinned again," she spoke in a rush; she'd been silent for too long; "and covered my mouth and they took me away… And then I was here, I was here for _so long_. Just waiting. I didn't want Vash to come and find me at first, because I didn't want him hurt, you know? But then they were doing… they were doing such horrible things to me that I wanted big brother there to save me. But he never came. He never came!" Hours of anguish broke through her voice. "He forgot about me! Vash forgot about me! He—he did!" She paused; Matthew was too stunned by the pure betrayal to correct her. "…and now I'm all alone…" She fisted her tiny hands, and pressed them to her eyelids.

She was a broken angel.

His eyes flickered, putting facts together as she shed her last tears, forgetting to appease her briefly. Seven days… The meeting… Oh, no, he thought, tracing it all back, tracing it back to the beginning; this was all _his_ fault!

He had scheduled that meeting that took Vash away from his sister…

And while he might have saved Vash's life, he had positively _destroyed_ hers.

Matthew began to shake like a leaf. He was glad that he was already on his knees, because he would have fallen on them anyway. He gripped her shoulders, lucky that she didn't recoil in discomfort. "Oh my gosh… Lilly, God, I'm so sorry!"

She kindly patted his trembling back, though she was in no better shape. She smiled to comfort him, her fat, bloody bottom lip barely moving. "I—I don't blame you… I… I would have told, too, eventually, I-I guess," she lied. "I still love Vash, even if he forgot about me." She sniffled. "I hope they don't find him! They're going to hurt him even worse, I'm sure of it."

He wildly shook his head. "No, no, Lilly, I would never! I—I lied to them," he admitted. "I kind of… I kind of knocked out their boss—" That sounded so uncharacteristic when put into words. He supposed it was. "—and I lied to those men. No one knows about Vash. And no one's going to, as long as I'm—"

Lilly's eyes erupted in a pure, grateful light. "Oh, thank you, thank you! I'm sorry for not trusting you!" She looked like she wanted to hug him, but her fingers were shaking. There was still that hurt in her, the hurt of being forgotten. It was all too familiar to him. He felt that he was the only one who could psychologically understand and comfort her.

"Lilly," he started again, clearing his throat, and resuming to button up the jacket around her; "You're not… you're _not_ alone. Never. Vash did _not_ forget about you, he never could—he simply had… business to get to. He…" What a liar he was. What a terrible, rotten liar. How many times would he lie today? How many times would he manage to get himself in trouble? He couldn't even bear to continue, once he noticed her face.

It was soft, lost, and vulnerable. She had downgraded herself emotionally from a strong, resilient young woman to a little, frightened child whose brother had left her in her time of need. She ignored reason. She tossed it away. For a split second, her eyes beamed at him. "Oh, is he helping out a patient from far away?" she suggested. She was simple, kind. "He does that sometimes."

The excuse was too easy for him to let pass; he saw how she'd withdrawn herself, mentally denied herself of thinking any different. "Yes, exactly! So don't ever think that he forgot about you. He loves you very much, sweetie." He secured the last button, and rose from his position. Now he was towering over her; he was the solider, she was the child waiting on a sibling to return from war. His war.

The difference was evident.

He quietly asked of her, "Why do they want Vash though, Lilly? Do you know why they want to hurt him?" He peered up at the sky, his eyelids narrowed, the sun too bright.

"It's because he's a doctor," she cried. She began her vexed frenzy once more. "Th-they said that he be the one who knows the secret of saving… someone; I can't remember the name they said. But I don't know if he really knows the secret or not! Or if it's even him, they could be confused, Vash would never do something bad. We've got to help him when he gets back… They said they're going to kill him if they catch him! Please…"

Matthew knew the nameless person she was referring to, who Vash could be trying to save/ It was like a constant weight in his heart; it always came back to Gilbert. He absently ran his fingers through her hair, experiencing the delicately diluted innocence and wondering where he'd lost his.

He banished those thoughts. He needed to figure out what the Superiors were up to. Apparently, they knew about the Terrors and their reflection on real people. And they'd somehow theorized that Vash had figured out a way to prevent its effects, and they didn't want him saving Gilbert or Roderich…

Well, that was a whole new twist to their plot!

A rather dangerous one, at that: if they realized that the elusive doctor was actually the person pretending to be mentally ill within their headquarters…

It would mean certain death for Vash.

Trying to comfort her, Matthew rubbed her small shoulders, massaging out knots. The scratches on his hands irritated him. "Okay, Lilly. I'm going to save—I, I mean, I'm going to bring Vash back home for you—but you've got to stay here, alright? I know for a fact that Vash wouldn't want you to get hurt, right? Just stay outside, and hide somewhere nice and safe and far away. I'll find you after I get Vash, alright? If someone tries to talk to you, or comes near you, run away as fast as you can; can you do that for me?"

He had a moment of inspiration and took the maple leaf pin from his hat and pressed it to her petite palm. "Hold this close to you, and I'll be with you, protecting you—so will Vash; he loves you. Alright?" He was crying silently himself—he didn't want to leave her alone, not with the terrible people in the world. Tears were determined little warriors on his face. They fell with grace. "Lilly, this will all be over before you know it. Just_ hold on_, for me, please."

Lilly began to hiccup again, another fresh onslaught of tears inflaming her eyes. "Okay, Mister Canada, sir…"

"Please," he allowed, leaning to kiss her forehead, "call me Matthew."


	54. chapter fiftythree

**CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE**: (zero is captured again)

Stepping back into the HQ, all the blood seemed to run out of him. Matthew almost wanted to leave, to escape with Lilly; but there was the matter of Vash now, and Alfred had always been a concern.

But his half-brother first. Together, they could figure out what to do about Vash, because at this point he was honestly drawing a blank. And that was dangerous, walking into battle with no plan. He needed someone with him. Also, if he was figuring it right, the last time Alfred had seen Matthew he'd been, well, by all looks of it, killed. Alfred needed to be caught up and reassured.

Then he had a thought. Matthew hoped more than anything that they hadn't taken Alfred as well—it would mean that he was alone.

With his heart thundering in his body, he tried to keep his worries frozen in his head. If he didn't think about the worst possible scenario, it couldn't come true, right?

He walked fast but sure, avoiding the direction in which he'd had the encounter with Jordan. He shuddered. He'd have to watch out for him, too—not because Jordan could hurt him, but Matthew was starting to feel itchy with the need of keeping him unconscious. With those violent, needy thoughts in mind, his pace slowed, and all at once, the hallway broke into a lobby.

And there were people in that lobby. Tens of them, lingering, laughing with one another. They looked inhuman; big eyes and broad shoulders, even the women who were tall and thick.

He stood there, paralyzed, for a while; terrified of being caught or recognized. What if someone pointed him out? What if they all gave chase? There would be no way he could outrun such a mob.

He bit his lip. If he quickly slipped from the room, he thought to himself, inching against the wall, he'd be fine, none of them would ever recognize him…

And just when he thought everything was going well for him, when he was moments away from being gone, he noticed someone across the room. Then they noticed him. It was a man about his height, standing by himself in the shadows of the room. He was holding a glass in his hand, and then he turned, and the man looked _directly at him_.

His hat was hiding his face.

It was one of the men from before!

Matthew swallowed thickly, wondering if he just—

No! Before he could even _hatch_ a plan, the man in the hat had placed his glass on the table and was coming toward him at an alarming rate.

So Matthew did the first thing that came to his head. Initiated the plan he'd given to Lilly:

He turned on his heels and ran.

Faster, faster; but he could hear the footsteps trailing him, closing in, cementing him between the walls of his transgressions—he was being trapped, captured, punished.

His thoughts swirled, his mind sweating; because of this severe anxiety, he was quickly losing control of his breathing, his coordination turned liquid. His feet began to slow, losing their balance, and the man behind him began to quicken, leaping like a lion whose prey had fallen—

It was all over, wasn't it?

Before he could formally surrender, the man's hands caught his collar. He gagged, his mind instantly putting him back into the position of being strangled. He tried to cry out, to scream, he didn't want to go through this again—

But the man wasn't strangling him. Matthew took a quick breath then was pushed up against the wall, and the man was physically so close to him; it was a position he didn't like to be in with a stranger. He felt like his body was being covered by the other man's, smothered.

When he began to squirm, mutter insensible apologies, a hand was pressed to his lips. The man was watching the hallway around them, not saying anything. Matthew watched him, unable to get a clear look of his face past the shadows. But when something registered, he had no idea what it was.

After a few tense moments, the man judged it safe and let go of Matthew completely.

Matthew was a mess of frayed nerves, and fell to the ground. His paranoia heightened when the man sat next to him…

Took off his hat…

And glared at him concernedly. "Mattie, are you alright? Where'd they take you? How'd you make it out alive? What the hell did they do to you? Is that blood on your neck?!"

Alfred?

The relief that came over Matthew was suffocating. He couldn't breathe. His brother had come after him! He wasn't dead, he hadn't been captured… things were looking up; again! He started to laugh. He hadn't done so in so long.

Despite himself, Matthew threw his arms around his half-brother's neck and grinned into his shoulder. "Alfred, I'm fine, I'm fine, long story…" He released him, staring at him in glee, and explained, "There's more going on than we thought! The Superiors are after Vash—since he's a doctor, they think he's figure out how to keep Gil and Roderich from dying, which he might've, and they don't want that for some reason. They know what destroying the Terrors does to us, and they're allowing it. It's really sick, man, and they probably have an ulterior motive… but we've got to get Vash back, and fast. If they figure out that the fake mentally sick person occupying their time was the person they've been trying to find all along…"

"They'd kill him for sure," Alfred finished somberly, dropping his hat into his lap. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Frick."

Matthew leaned against his sibling. He stared down the hallway. He heard no one.

"So we basically have to save a damsel in distress," Alfred tried to figure, tried to smile to himself.

"No, not really," Matthew quietly argued; "I guess I've already done that," he said, without much pride. "Though I got her there in the first place."

"Wait, what?"

Matthew smiled self-consciously, his eyes sad and dark. "The blood on my neck… isn't mine." Matthew told the tragic story of Lilly as if it was a faraway fairytale, like he wished it was.

"My goodness, those bastards!" Alfred exclaimed, when he was done.

"My exact response," Matthew mumbled.


	55. chapter fiftyfour

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: (memories are addictive, like drugs)

They sat around. In the middle of this abandoned hallway, in the heart of the enemy's territory, for a few minutes, they remained. It was as if they were children again: they messed with each other's hair, pinched one another's skin, and pulled out inside jokes while they conversed. For those minutes, they weren't compromised soldiers with the fate of the world on their young shoulders. They were simply brothers brought together again by awkward situations; they were letting free that fear they had gripped, the fear they had had about never seeing their only sibling again.

Matthew's eyes were misty and lost. He was thinking back to lifetimes ago, to places they called home. "I was wondering, Al…" Matthew murmured, "why was it that you never played with me on the playground during elementary school? I always thought that you didn't like me or something, but right after, in math class, you'd be copying my homework like normal," Matthew chuckled, his legs out before him, unrestricted. He moved his feet to a nursery rhyme. "It was always confusing to me. What made the playground different?"

Alfred gave him a blank look, and Matthew felt that rising fear of being forgotten, or that parts of his memories were altered or lost. Did they even remember the same things? Were they even—

Then Alfred began to laugh, a silent, quivering chuckle. "Oh gosh," began Alfred, cocking his head to the side, bringing back a habit long missed. He stared at him with fond exasperation. "Wow. You know, you should have asked me sooner, like in elementary school? That would have made more sense." He sighed, once again checking the hallways around them. "But the reason? D'you really want to know?"

Matthew tugged on his sleeve. "Yes, I do! What was it?"

A flush, so innocent, came over his dirty features. "Well… I kind of liked the girl you always hung around," he admitted quietly. "You know, it was one of those little crushes. Didn't last long, but since the two of you were always beside one another on the playground, I couldn't simply walk over! It was third grade; I was more dignified than that!"

Their hunger, sorrow, and duties were slipping from their mind.

It took Matthew a moment to recall exactly who Alfred was speaking of. "Oh, Katyusha? Really?" He thought of her in his mind. The overalls, the white lace, the pretty blue headband… "Huh! I never would have guessed. But you know, we were barely friends… it's just that neither of us liked recess much! We sat around and talked about useless things…"

Alfred reconsidered the image of her, like anyone would, when given new information on someone they once cared so dearly for. "Heh, well, you always _were_ one of the girls!" he joked, when the silence had begun to creep.

"Shut up." He shoved him.

"_Especially_ when you got older!"

"Didn't I tell you to _shut up_?" He shoved harder, but with a wider smile.

Alfred snickered to himself. "Well, remember when _Katyusha_ got older?"

The innuendo was lost for a brief moment; then it was Matthew's turn to change colors, while Alfred laughed harder. "It wasn't like anyone had a chance with her, anyway," Matthew tried. "Ivan wanted to keep her away from pervs, but he ended up keeping _everyone_ away… Poor girl; she was so kind and very pretty, too. And I'd heard that her life at home wasn't ideal either."

"Ivan had his problems when he found alcohol," Alfred recalled blandly, "and wasn't their little sister, like, mentally insane and in that asylum for most of high school?"

"Katyusha was stuck between that, and two parents who were never around," Matthew said in a sigh.

Alfred's eyes revolved like stars. They'd come back to reality, a mournful loss. "…Right now, in… I guess in this world, she's in the C section, right?"

"Yeah…" Matthew confirmed, not liking where it was going. They'd lost their illusions of peace, and began to feel somber and heavy.

He winced, catching his brother's gaze; off-guard. "So we should probably be saving her life right now, huh?"


	56. chapter fiftyfive

**CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE**: (to war)

They marched down the hallway, soldiers again; shoulder to hefty shoulder. In the quiet, their simultaneous footsteps were the only constant sound. They were surprised by the lack of Monitors, but nonetheless, they never let their guard down. They needed to remain powerful, on the authority; every move they made was deliberate and slow, calm, and so very collected.

Time markers clicked evenly in their heads. They had to keep aware of the seconds passing, because every single one of them mattered.

"We need to head to the MC," Alfred whispered, never once faltering in step; "I've learned that it's the Main Corridor. Why they abbreviated it, I don't know, it just makes everything more complicated, jeeze, but I think it's the hallway that was to our right when we entered—you know, the one Vash walked, or um, crawled down?"

Vash. He was in the eye of storm.

Matthew pursed his lips; they had a long walk ahead of them. They were nearly marching in sync. "What else did you do while I was gone?" He tried to add a bit of humor, but it fell short.

At first, Alfred really didn't want to say. There was a flash of his suppressed pain of thinking he'd lost his brother. But eventually, Matthew nudged him and Alfred sighed, retelling to those trusting eyes, "After blond jackass… took you away, I was worried if he'd seen me or not, so I sat around for a while. He never came back, so I got out of there, fast. I wanted to find you but—but I realized my uniform looked really similar to the blokes' who hung around here. None of them had personal pins, though, so I took off mine—and I see you're missing yours too?" Alfred pointed. "And your jacket?"

Matthew touched the area where the pin used to be. The fabric was rough under his fingers. "Lily was in really bad shape. I gave it to her for some sort of warmth, and the pin for… for good luck."

"It's also good luck that your shirt is the same color as your jacket, you can still get by. And good idea getting rid of the pin," Alfred said lightly, "or you would have stuck out like a sore thumb. These guys all look identical. It makes the station look fun…

"Anyway,_ then_ I wanted to run around and find you, but these two guys saw me and started to interrogate… I got away fine, but I realized I needed to keep the façade up. I went to the Storage Room and got myself a revolver chamber." He pulled a small cardboard box out from under his coat, letting his brother have a peek at the military lingo printed on the sides before putting it back. "Since I had it, I could walk around looking for you as long as I wanted to and if caught I could claim I was just lost."

They were three hallways away from their destination. Matthew's heart was beginning to throb painfully; luckily for him, Alfred had a plan:

"I had enough time to think of a way to get us all out when I was loitering around. Now that we've got to get Vash sooner, though, it might be a bit complex… but I trust ya, bro. Don't forget that." He had to add, "I'm… not going to be me in the next few minutes. I'm going to be an A officer. What I say… don't take to heart." Alfred had become stone. All light was gone from his eyes, leaving only a flashing radiance of determination.

Alfred looked directly at him; "Just follow along and do everything I say. And don't fidget too much, alright? It makes you look nervous."


	57. chapter fiftysix

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX**: (playing the parts)

They were standing at the entryway. Matthew stood beside Alfred, his hat pulled over his eyes. Alfred said it made him look more like a lowly assistant, and this was what he was going to be for the next hour or so.

Alfred adjusted his own uniform. It was ripped, torn, and stained from their trek there, so he tried to hide as much of that as possible.

Matthew looked worse. He had, wincingly, wiped the blood from his neck, but he couldn't hide the disgusting bruise that had blossomed. He had a scabbed cut on his cheek when Alfred had accidentally swiped him so long ago in the infirmary, and the back of his head sprouted a tiny mountain from when Jordan had thrown him across the room. He was a broken product of his experiences, but at least he was still standing, even if it was on sore legs.

"Okay, listen very carefully," Alfred said quietly, placing the package into his hands; "I'm giving you this because it looks better, having an assistant carry around my stuff. I think it just makes me look lazy, but… Anyway. It'll keep up our cover, so don't be too obvious with it, alright?"

Matthew mutely nodded, putting it on his hip and using the side of his elbow to keep it there. He kept his face blank.

"And…" Alfred inhaled a deep breath, the last breath he'd breathe easily, and exhaled it with his words, "…here we go."

They walked side-by-side for one final time, before Matthew took the liberty to lag behind him. Like a loyal assistant…

It took exactly fifty-six steps—Matthew counted; numbers were sure, numbers were resolute—before their carefully orchestrated plan, once again, exploded to pieces before them:

The Superiors seemed to have already realized who Vash really was.

Because Vash was gagged and bound on the floor, a gun to his head.


	58. chapter fiftyseven

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN**: (the doctor's neutrality)

Green, frightened eyes were surrounded by deep packets of bruised tissue. The flow of tears had been halted by the swelling, though there were traces of old drops of saltwater mixing with the blood on his face. Clumps of Vash's dull, blond hair had been clutched so tightly that they stood on twisted ends. There were patches that had been ripped clean from his skull. He was propped against a wall, his hands tied together with a strip of his shirt. His mouth was silenced with a section ripped from his pant leg. One of his feet appeared to be perverted, as it bent unnaturally beneath his body.

Vash was sobbing. This shouldn't have been so surprising to Matthew; but it was, honestly, the most emotion he'd ever seen on him. Even when Matthew had to release his soul at the cost of Roderich's life, Vash had barely batted an eyelash.

And there he was, pitiful and crying like a child.

Matthew experienced the same inflation of pride he had felt when he had learned Lilly was in trouble. He wanted to save him, and he even felt his body preparing for it—

But this time, it wasn't _his_ job.

Vash languidly turned his head and looked directly at them. It caused his sobs to morph into warning screams; which, inadvertently, alerted the gun-holder to their presence.

There were three men around Vash. Two men behind the one, they were the two men Matthew and Alfred had met upon entering. Malaysia was frozen, paralyzed by his fear, the left side of his face swollen; Singapore, shaking, was trying to dial a number on his phone. He was failing.

So Vash had put up a fight, before they managed to beat the rebellion out of him… that was the only thing that explained the officers' maimed faces. He'd managed to light a spark before they'd beat him into silence, banished all the light from his eyes. Didn't they know that without this light, the wings of an angel would be torn to shreds?

The last of the three men held the gun against Vash's temple. He was tall, broad-shouldered with rugged features and a mop of dirty-blond hair. He looked as if he was made of stone. He moved the gun—held in an invincible fist—when he saw Matthew and Alfred. He aimed for Alfred's heart. "You there! What are you doing here?"

Alfred put his hands up slightly, meaning no harm. Matthew could tell he was nervous, Matthew could see it in the quivering tension in his eyebrows. They moved out from behind the corner, exploring the boundaries of their vulnerability. "Please put down your weapon, officer," Alfred requested, and his voice was as smooth as silver. "I have none."

"Who are you?"

"We're—we're just looking for something. Who are you?"

"Officer Iran," said the man, a bravado under his words. "I have been ordered to secure this man." He motioned to Vash with only a glance.

Smiling softly, Alfred shook his head. "You must be mist—"

"What's in his hands?" Iran interrupted threateningly, waving his gun toward Matthew.

"My—my assistant," Alfred stuttered, his nerves on fire, moving himself in front of Matthew, "is holding the plane part we came here to retrieve. Do not worry about him, he cannot hurt you."

Iran scowled, his dark eyes like graphite, thick and undecipherable. "If you have your part, then what are you doing down here?" he reasoned, still angry, still pointing his gun. "This is private business."

Alfred spared a self-conscious laugh. "Held in a public hallway?" he asked, obviously not believing. He rolled his eyes, opening his mouth, but there was a sudden noise stopped all of them in their tracks.

Singapore's shaky hands got the best of him; his disoriented phone crashed onto the ground, breaking in half. He gasped wretchedly, startling Malaysia out of his reverie and they both stared at Iran, clear and naked fear in their faces.

The gun spun around, setting its sights on the two. It said nothing.

"This—this isn't right," Singapore stammered, his eyes flicking down to the gun. "We're n-not supposed to kill him—now. We're—we're supposed to talk to him, we need to see if what they said is…"

"…is true," Malaysia tried.

Iran didn't falter. He tilted his head, almost seeming amused, were he not made of stone. "And how much time would that waste?"

Vash had closed his eyes. He'd begun to shake. A litany of words were held captive behind his gag; it was all so indistinguishable. He was begging, pleading, reasoning, everything he could ever think to do. When nothing made sense to him, he started to repeat a word over and over until it erupted into clarity: "_No, no, no…_"

Matthew was seeing two faces. Lilly's was underneath Vash's, a ghostly image reminding him of all that was at stake. Reminding him of everything they stood to lose if…

His breath scratched in his throat, ripping his voice from within: "E… excuse me," was what his voice said. His brain came alight with adrenaline and he wanted to run but everyone looked at him. Everyone'd heard him, and it was his turn to make peace.

"Matt, no," Alfred warned, his voice hanging like venom, darkest Matthew had ever seen him.

Matthew met his eyes for a moment, then closed them and took a reassuring breath. "I… I don't think it would waste much time," he said, "if we simply let the man speak for himself."

"Like last words?" Alfred hissed. "Mattie, what do you think you're doing?"

Matthew ignored him. "He—he can explain himself, right, and then we can understand what's happened and—and act accordingly." He spoke much stronger now, reassured by the logic in his words. Once they understand Vash's point of view, he hoped, they'd be set free. (There was a part of him reasoning that they wanted Vash because of this truth, and telling it would damn them all; but that part of him was one he'd learned to ignore a long, long time ago. He had to be an optimist now.)

"Please?" Matthew requested, handing the box to Alfred. The gun followed his every move. He put his hands up, surprised at how steady they were, and inched toward Vash.

"Mattie…"

"I've got this," Matthew reassured Alfred steadily, someone else's pure, confident smile on his lips.

Iran watched him, like he was considering. He allowed Matthew to move without a word. Matthew took a moment to collect himself before kneeling down beside Vash.

Vash's troubled breathing shredded through the cloth, his chest heaving with effort and pain. His wild animal eyes watched Matthew with what almost seemed to be disinterest, but was really a disengaged, hopeless fear.

"It's alright Vash," Matthew assured, murmuring his words like to a child. He brought up his hands again to show Vash before making any sudden movement. "It's alright, we're going to let you explain everything, okay? There's nothing to be afraid of, me and Alfred are here."

Vash made no sign of comprehension, but he watched Matthew with curiosity.

Looking to Iran with barely disguised irritation, Matthew asked, "Can I remove the cloth?"

There was nothing, for a moment; nothing more than the officer's hard stare. Then, with a minute nod of the head, he gave his consent.

Matthew breathed lightly, feeling as if a whole new world had opened up in front of him, a whole ocean to explore. He smiled at Vash, trying to be reassuring, and slowly brought his hands around his head. He untied the cloth, careful not to touch his scalp, not to irritate him any further. As Matthew pulled it from his teeth, Vash simply breathed for a while; breathed like a young man brought alive. He looked around, and seemed amazed by what he saw.

"Tell us," Officer Iran boomed, his voice seeming to envelope the hallway, submerge them in inky goo; "are you a doctor?"

Vash blinked rapidly, clearing the mist from his eyes. He said nothing, but met Matthew's stare. When Matthew smiled again, Vash's face softened and he spoke to him, "Yes."

A sliver of movement animated Iran's shoulders. "And are you the one developing a serum to ease, or possibly cure, those officers whose quote-unquote 'souls' have been destroyed?"

Swallowing, Vash's eyes seemed awake with guilt; Matthew, still at his level, tried to ignore how much he wanted to hear the answer. "Y… yes," Vash finally admitted. Before anyone could do anything, however, he fought to explain, "I—I thought to myself. What if the dying could be slowed down? What if they could get a fighting chance? I just… it seemed possible, I was sure I could do it, or at least I could try. So I… so I reasoned, maybe… maybe…" His features skewed and he held his eyes shut. "What if it didn't matter what soul? What if it didn't matter?

"It was—it _felt_… controversial." Vash met Matthew's gaze as some sort of punishment. "I took… I took cells from a few of the exterminated souls I found out in the field. I took them, and I used them to make an injection, it… it wouldn't be the same, I knew it. I almost abandoned it, thinking of it as some sort of fantasy, but my first… When I mentioned it, my first subject, he… he was willing."

Matthew's heart trembled. "Gilbert," he said, not as much of a question as an accusation.

"Yes," Vash said, the admittance breaking him, tears starting anew. "I told him Matt, I swear I told him, I told him that sure, you could live longer, but you might not be the same, you'd change, you could—could always become—" He stopped for breath, wheezing. "It didn't matter. He didn't _care_. He just… Matthew, he just wanted to be there to see you come back. He didn't care what it took."

Managing to laugh despite himself, to laugh over the rising sob in his throat, Matthew shook his head. "That sounds like him," he muttered, almost bitter, "that selfish idiot, he—"

Vash's moan spilled forth all of his pain, his regret, his misery. He seemed to realize something, something that tore through him. "I should have just known my place, look where this got me. I shouldn't have choose sides, I shouldn't have cared—"

"So it is you," Officer Iran spat, slicing into their conversation like wood. "You're—you're the inhuman scientist trying to prolong the inevitable—"

"It's not inevitable," Matthew cried, breaking his throat, "you can stop it, you can stop the officers from shooting, you can save everyone from destruction!"

The officer shook his head. "That's the point. That's the point, you stupid, stupid man. This world? It isn't _working_. We're going to try again. Find someplace else, get other—"

Alfred's voice was ragged, as if he too were holding back sobs; "No. No, you're not doing this again, you're not taking innocent people—"

"We already have the 'innocent' people. They've already agreed," he explained miserably. Iran's malice had begun to grow; in face of everything going his way, in face of everything falling into place, he felt empowered by the ultimate, worldly truth. "Would you like to know their names? Would you like to know—?"

"No," Alfred interrupted, thin like glass; "No," he repeated, louder, his voice thundering through his ribcage. "I—I won't let you! You can't do it, you can't do it to someone else, man, it—it tears them apart inside. The one moment of weakness leading to—leading to all of this! Just…" He looked on the edge of tears, looked up to the ceiling for some sort of help. "Just let us—just let us reset it. You remember, yeah? Maybe you were there. That green lever. We can pull it, we can—we can—"

Iran's laugh sounded like sin, like a threat against all humanity; it was so lightweight and silly that they weren't even sure they were hearing it. "That lever, huh? They told you it would save everyone? Well, sorry to break it to you, but they _lied_. Oh, they lied, that's all they ever do. Isn't it sweet of them? To give you some sort of hope to cling on to?"

The doubt that'd been gaseous in all of their minds solidified, and attempted to drown them. Vash struggled upward against the weight; before anyone could argue again, he'd latched to Matthew's forearms and tried to drag himself to his feet.

The cocking of the gun stopped him.

"Oh, not so fast, we still have to take care of you," Iran seethed, growing wordy in his anticipation. "You've just plead guilty! In front of multiple witnesses no less, isn't that right boys?"

Singapore and Malaysia continued to shake in their boots; almost on autopilot, they muttered various noises of agreement.

"Listen, Doctor," Iran said, almost casually. "We're going to kill you and everyone you've ever helped, and then we're going to continue, we're going to go forward until there _is_ no more filth like you."

As his gun aimed, Matthew's heart hopped like a sparrow in his chest. He leaned forward, covering Vash's slumped body with his own. "Stop it, stop it please," he cried. "You don't understand. Why is he guilty? For trying to help? He's just—"

"He's going against us, against his _Superiors_," Iran said, almost as if he'd had to explain this a million times before. "That is unlawful treason and we will not allow it."

"Please," Matthew begged, and he pulled a card he hadn't wanted to; hadn't wanted to, until Iran's eyes stood unwavering in his decision and he realized he had no other choice. It was a last hope, to appeal to sympathy. "…he has a sister. At least—"

Lightning ran through Vash, and he moaned. "How could I… Lilly," he said, the name a benediction. His hands were iron on Matthew's arms. "Lilly, oh, please, you've got to let me go see her, she was so mad at me; I can't let it end like—"

"Lilly?" Iran tasted the name, found it sweet. "Is that her name?" He looked down at Vash's wide-eyed, vulnerable form and smirked. His eyes were predatory, like a snake's. "We have her, Doctor. Did you know that? We have your 'Lilly'. We've been trying to get your identity from her, since as a nurse we assumed she'd know every single doctor, everyone with medical expertise, but we had no idea—we had no idea that you were _related_. Oh, isn't that perfect! Now she can die knowing her brother failed to protect her, to save her like she _sobbed_ hoping he would."

Vash didn't inflate like Matthew expected; his grip tightened, and he only said, "You don't have her," with a tone dripped and sputtering in denial.

"Yes, yes we—"

"No; no, Vash," Matthew fought to say, unable to take it any longer. He entrapped Vash's angry gaze in his own, not allowing him to stray. He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, trying to smile but finding it hard. "I—I saved her. She's free, she's safe, Vash. She's safe. I made sure of it. Don't worry—"

Vash, despite Matthew's attempts, meet Iran's gaze and wilted in anger. "What did you do," he groaned. "What did you do—" He made to stand, all of his energy in the movement, but the pressure on his leg made him scream and crumble back down.

After sparing a laugh, Iran moved his head, turning it slowly like a reptile, and released a breath between his teeth. "This has gone on for too long. I'll tell you what, Officers," he said, aiming for Vash's head, aiming for the pounding mass of agony trapped inside; he spoke like a specter, like a long-forgotten nightmare; his words were cyanide to the system, a death omen; "I will do what I have been told to do, then I will let the two of you leave. No repercussions, as long as you leave and never come back. Consider it a gift, as you are no use to me. I could easily get rid of you as well, but I am feeling quite—generous. Just remember: the Superiors' orders always… come… _first_."

The gun went off; Matthew closed his eyes and imagined fireworks.


	59. chapter fiftyeight

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: (the doctor is ill)

Eardrums vibrated, active with sound. There was just a chaos of noise, radiating down the hallways, bouncing from the walls. Everyone was confused, startled, and distressed, when a singular shot had erupted somewhere from within the HQ. Alarms blared on top of it all. People in starch, green uniforms were running around. There were multiple people shouting at the same time. Matthew was, Alfred was… Vash had, at first. He'd let out one, devastatingly short scream.

But now he was just quiet.

Iran had rounded Singapore and Malaysia with him. "Be sure to clean up the mess too," he bellowed, referring to the blood painting the walls, dripping from Matthew's face. Then they were gone, rounded around the corner.

Singapore gave one fearful glance over his shoulder. Evil left no witnesses, he was sure.

Matthew was frozen, broken; the blood was on his skin, on his lips, and like some sort of curse he couldn't _move_ and Vash's head was heavy against his neck and it trickled down and he couldn't breathe why did this have to happen what had he done—

He felt a smooth hand on his back, over his shoulder blade, then another on his opposite arm. There were muted, insensible mutterings reaching his ears; the world was tinted pink and tilted on its side. He let his brother pull him away, feeling like a rag doll torn to pieces.

Matthew managed to stand and hold his balance. For that, he felt so proud.

Everything moved in slow motion. Alfred fell to his knees and gathered the doctor in his arms, and held him against his chest. He leaned close, the devastation of tiny hope settling in, trying to detect a heartbeat, or a breath—

Then time stopped. Nothing moved, nothing until Vash's throat shook and his chest began to elevate.

"He's still alive," Alfred said, at the last moment remembering to keep the hope out of his voice; "but—but not for long."

Matthew, swallowing down the bile, slowly wiped his face with his shirt. It left long stains down the front of him, reminders of all the blood that remained to be shed. All because of him, because of his selfish dream.

Alfred reared his head. He was extravagant with determination, a survival instinct that made him forget himself; he knew that they were running out of options. There was only one.

The spotlight fell on Matthew.

"Mattie, you've got to flick the switch, _now_," Alfred hissed, fighting to keep his voice down, fighting against everything unfair in the world; "I… I have a feeling… that if Vash is… If Vash is _dead_ when everything resets, he'll still be _dead_ after whatever happens! Do you understand me? You're the only one who can do this. I'll—Vash needs someone." Alfred's eyes were drowning under his tears.

Matthew moved his head slowly. "I…" He was still shaken, and a bit numb. "The lever," he said in a disjointed voice. "He said the lever…"

Alfred coiled in on himself, some sort of pain bringing him inward. "No, Matt, we don't have time for this! Did you even listen to him? He said that they all lie, right? That doesn't exclude him! He was messing with us, Matt, you've got to go, _please_. Please don't doubt yourself, I'm sor—" Alfred's apology stopped short. He had no idea what he was apologizing for.

The brothers simply stared at each other, while Vash's chest was getting heavier and heavier… He was losing blood quicker and quicker… Alfred was turning redder and redder as it stained him…

He had no idea what to do. He was the assistant, the little brother, the B officer, the weakling. How could something so profound be placed on _his_ thin shoulders? Didn't they know he'd break? He hadn't been able to prove himself before, how could he possibly do it now? "Me?" Matthew quipped. "No, I can't."

"_Yes_, yes you can! Matthew, _please_! You've just got to _hurry_! Think about Gilbert!" Alfred swallowed. His arguments were getting thicker and thicker, along with the blood in his veins. He felt weighed down with molten metal and glass. "If he's dead before you reset everything, he'll _stay_ dead, I'm telling you! Don't you understand? Matt, you can't want that, do you?"

Lightning ran through him. Matthew felt sick, offended, like his vital organs were being twisted. "No, of course not," he hissed, bright and tortured.

"And Lilly!" Alfred fought. He was beyond human, a vicious animal with ulterior motives: he was trying to keep someone alive, the most selfish someone could be. Matthew was no more than a plot point, a murky figure of some distant relation. "Lilly—she'd be orphaned without Vash! Could you do that to her? Could you tell her that you let her brother _die_?!" He spat and he screamed, holding onto Vash with tender hands. Vash's eyes hadn't opened. No one moved.

Lilly, Matthew thought to himself. The little blonde angel with trusting wide eyes. He imagined her drowning in her own tears; Vash, in his own blood. "…No…"

"Then what the _hell_ are you standing around for?!"

It was the proclamation that broke the world.

The box, with the damned revolver chamber, he picked from the floor and clutched to his chest. Why he did, he wasn't sure. He needed something to hold onto, and even if it wasn't soft and fluffy and warm, it was something. Matthew was crying as he nodded to his half-brother, resolution sealing him together for the moment, and bolted back to where he'd come from.


	60. chapter fiftynine

**CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE**: (five's time)

_Aping my soul  
You stole my overture  
Trapped in God's program  
Oh, I can't escape  
Who are we?  
Where are we?  
When are we?  
Why are we in here?_

There was an eerie, pensive quiet back at the station. Officers of all ages continued their lives as normal. After a single large infestation, the Terrors had quieted. This gave officers free time. Free time entailed talking, whispering amongst themselves about the recent disappearance of two officers, a doctor, and a nurse. But the A section organized a meeting to fill in the missing pieces, using white lies and black truths. "They are away on a mission," said one of the senior officers, staring with a blank face at the crowd. "They will be back shortly." People looked around at each other, disappointed in such uninteresting news, dismayed that they no longer had anything to converse about. So everything, everyone, every being, was silent, down to their pores. Quiet invaded the mind. They thought about peace.

Above all this was Ludwig, who knew that the populous was trapped in one of the most vicious wars of their history. He felt he was holding the strings of the entire world together in his hands, and had given it all of his strength. But now he was tired, now he was anxious, dragged down by worry and uncertainty and fatigue. He felt so disconnected from everything: the plan, his friends, everyone he loved. He had nothing to give them anymore. He would have given up already if there weren't so many people relying on him.

Relying him, or bothering him, as Hungary was doing. Ludwig sighed. He hadn't given her a punishment; hadn't really cared to. But now, she, the loyal B officer, kept bugging him about it; she wanted to know when she'd have to pay for her evil, unlawful transgressions.

He wanted nothing to do with it. Leave him alone already.

"Officer Hungary, if you are so willing for a punishment," he finally snarled at her, two days of it; two constant days of it. They stopped in a middle of a hallway, and she stood complacently beside him. Her eyes were alight at the prospect of justice. "Then, Officer, I put you under room arrest. You are not allowed to leave your room for the next three weeks, aside from compulsory meetings and training. Is that fine with you?"

She accepted, with the grace of a soldier. She nodded at him, grateful if resigned. "Yes, Officer. I will begin right away. Thank you, Officer."

He shooed her, and she left him. He rubbed his hands against his forehead. It felt like he had a constant headache, a lingering pain always somewhere within him. He wasn't sleeping. Barely ate. He felt guilty for this as well; how could he handle the weight of the world when he couldn't even handle himself?

Ludwig was alone with his thoughts for a good three seconds. He let out a breath, and even before he could bring it back in, before he could fill himself up, there was a scream. Not just a scream, but an animal-like _cry_. It dispersed, and it spread, and it left survivors. It hadn't come from Ludwig, he was sure, though he felt the same way; it wasn't _his_ scream, he realized, even if it sure sounded similar to his deep-toned… masculine… no. No.

It was his brother.

Ludwig was running in moments. Worried sick, in seconds. In front of the infirmary door in minutes. He slammed into the door.

Surprisingly, it was locked.

But he could hear it—it was softer now, but just as heart-wrenching. The gratingly painful screams from just beyond the wall.

"Gilbert, open the door!" Ludwig shouted. He managed to keep a tremor from his voice; he managed to keep himself together, if only for a moment.

Ludwig didn't expect a reply; but then he heard his older brother's voice, ragged and heated, "No. No way in hell, Luddy." There was a laugh. It was self-conscious and small. "I'm—not—going to let you—s-see me like this…!" He was shouting in pain by the end of his statement. All of his humanity melted and dripped. Pain ripped everything away from a person.

Ludwig hit the door with enough force to get his point across. He wasn't in the mood for his sibling's games… He felt confused and lost, but this was so dire! He changed tactics, growling, "Roderich, open the door for me! Ignore him!" It was only after saying it that Ludwig wondered if Roderich was in just as much pain, gone too far for any noise. It made his heart sink to think about.

From out in the hallway, Ludwig could hear Gilbert gasp wretchedly. It almost made him smile; it was one of Gilbert's fake, scandalized noises. "No, you aristocratic bastard! I swear, if you open that door I will—!" His pain interrupted him. It cracked open all of his strength, filled him in with vulnerability.

"Gilbert." It was Roderich, his voice coming closer and closer toward the door; he sounded lethargic and slow. Barely himself, without enough care to compose his attitude into a perfectly polished existence. "Something's really wrong with you, something's changed. Swallow your pride for a moment and let Ludwig help you."

The lock clicked. Gilbert continued to spew profanities at the man.

Ludwig had the door open in a flash. He stopped prematurely, frozen in the threshold. The sight… wasn't pleasant.

Gilbert was standing beside his bed, his knees quivering and his hands pressing to the sheets to keep him stable. His shirt had been ripped off, and it lay on the ground around his feet. Blood tainted his chest, neck and chin—it was dribbling, like a lazy river, from the corners of his mouth. Normally, he hadn't much of a color to his skin, but presently it was a sickly, dark gray color. He couldn't seem to breathe properly; all of his energy seemed focused on the one, simple task. The reds of his eyes had faded into a lurking, dark auburn, with gold deposits around the pupils. He said, no, he _snarled_, "Get. _Out_."

Roderich had taken a seat next to the now-opened door. He, too, was blemished in blood, but it seemed to be Gilbert's, coughed across distance and not sympathetic to collateral damage. Roderich hadn't appeared to notice; either that, or he was too exhausted to move to wipe it off. Actually, Roderich had only a lingering fever and insomnia; his sickness hadn't yet evolved into Gilbert's drastic state. He said, no, he _mumbled_, "Gilbert, calm down."

Ludwig was glad he had put Feliciano in another room. He tried to imagine a triad of misery and couldn't even conjure it.

"What's going on here?" Ludwig demanded, when no one supplied him with any information. He was breathless and tried to revel in the feeling.

Gilbert glared at Roderich, but Roderich still explained, "Gilbert says he's dying, but he doesn't want you here. Seems counter-intuitive, but…" He focus dwindled. He got lost in the specters of the air.

Ludwig's heart accelerated and planted itself problematically in his throat. "Gilbert—is that true? Not just an exaggeration?"

"I'm on _fire_, Ludwig, I think I can tell when it's my time," Gilbert groaned, lying back onto his bed. He seemed to sizzle and vibrate on the sheets.

"Didn't—didn't Vash give you something?!" Ludwig exclaimed, that eerie purple liquid floating back into his mind, along with Gilbert's words, along with his misplaced guilt. Emotion filled him, filled every empty hole inside. "Some sort of medicine, right?! Why isn't it working?!" He tried his best not to get angry, not to get upset in front of them. He was supposed to be a rock. He found it difficult to remain so.

Gilbert's hands fisted tightly. He closed his eyes and looked away to some other time. "Vash… Vash, he said, he told me it was only a trial. Only something he was experimenting with. He had no data. He wasn't sure if it would really work, it was just an idea… It turns out it gave me…" He hissed, rolling over, feeling bloated. "…only a few extra days.

"Goddammit, Mattie!" Gilbert suddenly exclaimed, something relative to betrayal fueling him. He seemed surprised at himself, but he opened his eyes and hissed wildly,"Get back here and save me like you promised! You promised me! I…" Gilbert wasn't sobbing. He felt like his chest was collapsing and he pulled in on himself, covering his face in his hands and bringing his knees toward him. He didn't move for quite a while, sorrow making him stagnant.

Breathing in deep, Ludwig felt no different. Breathing in deep, he still felt lost and cheated and pathetic. The only thing he could do was release all the tension from his body—let himself sag—and approach his brother's bed. Roderich watched, nothing more than a disconnected spark in the room. Ludwig sat beside his brother and, letting go of that last haunting breath, placed his hand on his back. He left it there, the parasitic trade of warmth something comforting, something real.

They remained there together. They thought of Matthew, Alfred, and Vash—

Were they any closer to salvation?


	61. chapter sixty

**CHAPTER SIXTY**: (the end)

_The edge of all our fears_

_Rest with you_

_We are counting on you_

_It's up to you_

_You must rescue us all_

Running. It was fast-paced and free, slow and terrorizing. Matthew had seemed to be doing a lot of it lately: running with his life, and many others', weighing him down. He had gotten very fast, even with this incredible weight, but it never ceased to pain him. His mind trembled. His body quaked. Every natural instinct told him he was running on false hopes, on unattainable dreams. There was nothing left. Why was he trying? This fight that had arisen within him in response was nothing more than a chemical imbalance, a cruel trick of his nervous system. It would all be for naught.

But the least he could do was try.

Counting every breath, every step, every move, Matthew navigated the corridors—they held a sort of second-hand familiarity about them now, as if he was returning to a childhood home, nothing more than a simple memory. There were so many people about, the alarms were still screaming; but they were passing ghosts to Matthew, figures of his own creation. He barreled straight into them and yet nothing could slow him down. They didn't understand the pressure on him! They didn't understand what he was fighting for, this inner fire that kept him burning! No one could ever understand, and they never would, if he failed in his task.

His heart was pounding, not from the exertion yet, but from an inexplicable fear coming over him… Matthew had always been connected to Gilbert, one way or another. And he had the feeling that his brother was right:

Gilbert was dying, at this very moment… wasn't he?

Matthew felt as if he could pass out from that thought _alone_. But then he thought of Lilly, alone in the woods… of Roderich, who was an innocent casualty… Vash, the one trained to heal people, being killed by the species he wanted to protect… and Alfred, who was destined to see out what could be the doctor's last moments.

And Gilbert… Gilbert…

All of them. He had to save all of them, right there, right now.

He pondered. He really couldn't see, could he? Isn't that what Gilbert had said, near the very beginning of their reunion? The walls were just slabs of white to him… doorways were gray… except for the Control Room. The Control Room was green.

Green.

He just needed to see green, and he'd be fine.

Not a ribbon, but a door. Look for a door.

Seconds later, he ran past it. He ran back to it, his feet slippery and all of his movements on ice. Matthew stood in front of the Control Room's door, panting, heaving, huffing. He spared a second that he knew he didn't have just to stand there, getting dizzier, before using all of his strength to push it open.

It slid, very slowly… It creaked, it whined, it worried him: was he even alone?

"Hey, what are you doing?" called a voice from inside. It sounded tinny, like a robot's, some sort of mechanical creature's. It surely couldn't be real. "This is A Officers only! Get out!"

Oh, man.

The person who had spoken was a male and sat in front of one of the computer screens. He whirled his chair around to face Matthew—and two more on either side copied him.

Wolf packs, of three each. He wondered why the two who had greeted them hadn't had a third, maybe he'd died.

Matthew jumped, startled. "I—um—I…" Lie, lie, lie! He had been so good at it before! Let it slip from his fingers, let it fall like silk—"I'm just looking for the Storage Room, so I can put this away?" He held up the revolver chamber's box. His hands were shaking. They didn't notice. "I'm n-new here."

"You sure are," said the man, standing with rolling eyes. He rose from his seat, said a few muted words to the other officers. Then he stepped out into the hallway with Matthew, and began walking away from him. "Just follow me, newbie," he volunteered. "I'll show you where—!"

Silence.

Matthew huffed. He'd pulled the revolver chamber from the box. It was small, but very solid and awfully square. He'd held it like a gun and slammed it against the man's skull. So much blood today, he wondered, as the man went slack and fell against the wall. He slid, made a slug's trail.

The dim florescent lighting caught on the man's metal nametag. The letters caved in like graveyard plots.

It read, Mexico.

Matthew prayed the man wouldn't die, this man with the wrong name plastered across his chest. If he died, he wouldn't be there for the saving of the world, he wouldn't be there anymore at all, if it even worked, if he even could—

Focus, he told himself. Vash! Gilbert! He had to stay on track. Concentrate on his friend, his lover…

"Who are you?!"

This voice scared him. At the sound of their coworker's small, swallowed scream, the other two officers had run out to approach him.

Big mistake! Matthew felt like a bull, like a powerful beast, and he was cornered. He knew he had no time to lose; seeing how the chamber dripped with blood, he figured there was no harm with adding a little more—he hit them both across the forehead quickly, mumbling nonsensical things to himself. He felt like he was losing everything he'd tried to gain, he felt like a coward and a martyr all tied into one.

Guatemala and Belize, said the officers' nametags… and again, Matthew experienced a moment of personal regret.

What if these men had little sisters? Brothers? Fathers?

It lasted two seconds, this moment of pure empathy. He let it go with easy abandon as he ran into the Control Room, no longer caring about getting caught. He just needed to find… that… _lever_…

Simplistic enough. There was only one green one, but there was something else Matthew had also forgotten:

It was encased under a glass box, a glass box that would only open if given the right code.

Matthew didn't know any code! He wasn't any good with codes, his past experiences told him so.

He had come too far, he realized, _way_ too far, to have it all stop just one step before the finish. Indignation filled him, and ran throughout his veins until it reached his fingers. He fisted his left hand, and brought it down on the glass case as hard as he could.

No luck. It didn't shatter, it didn't grant him access, he wasn't free, he couldn't do anything right.

The case only glinted.

Anger fueled him a second time, seeing the case still so pure and perfect and patronizing, and he punched the case again with all of his human strength.

All of his strength—and it was just enough to break his hand.

He heard the sickening crack of bone, could feel the numbing pain swimming in his pinky and ring fingers. Now he was lost, _and_ disabled.

If only—

The revolver chamber, sticky with blood, was in his right hand.

If it could mash skulls… couldn't it mash glass?

It was damn well worth a shot.

Using only his right hand, Matthew brought it over his head. Before he brought it down he whispered to himself; it might have been a prayer, a benediction, a name, but there was nothing for certain, except—

The glass exploded everywhere. It pieced itself into his clothing, fell to the floor, and cut into the walls and electrical equipment.

But there, now only surrounded by a fence of broken glass, was the green lever, and it smiled at him, reassuring, and it seemed to say, "_It's your turn._"

He dropped the chamber, that stupid bit of plane equipment, sending it falling. It died in a shattered glass sea on the floor.

Since his left hand was unmoving, Matthew took the other one and latched it to the green plastic. All he had to do was pull it down and the whole charade would collapse… He would set the Earth spinning rightfully again…

He only hoped he wasn't too late.

Very deliberately, very slowly, thinking of his brother's words of patience from months ago, Matthew pulled the lever.

At first, he thought it was just happening to him—but the phenomenon engulfed the whole room. Everything lost its color. Everything blended, white. The lines that kept objects from blurring together squashed up to their neighbors, eyes crossing, pupils dilating. The world was one being now, all together and timeless, peaceful…

Everything was just… _white_.

It was the light from before, back for him again, he thought, thinking of the delirium of so long ago. It was a comfort amongst a lingering sigh of failure.

He smiled. There were drum lines reverberating in his heart.

And that was the last anyone ever saw of him.

_Tell us, tell us your final wish_

_Now, we know you can never return_

_Tell us, tell us your final wish_

_We will tell it to the world_


	62. epilogue

**EPILOGUE**: (this is how the story ends)

_Let's start over again_  
_Why can't we start it over again?_  
_Just let us start it over again_

_And we'll be good_  
_This time we'll get it..._  
_We'll get it right_

_It's the last chance to forgive ourselves_

There is a vibration. In his brain, throughout his skin. Alfred breathes heavily. Every step feels like there are weights around his ankles, as if he's trying to pass through a plastic bubble. Something's trying to keep him in place, some sort of force, a destiny, and he is fighting it with every ounce of his strength. It is February 19th, 2013, and Alfred is out of breath and running down the sidewalk. He is trying to get home, as fast as he can, because something incredible has happened to him.

On the doorway of his own house, he stops and pounds on the front door. He also rings the doorbell, his fingers moving like nervous butterflies, his fingers taking the collateral damage of his anxiety. He looks around him, worried sick and slightly frightened.

His father opens the door. Alfred turns toward him and grabs the labels of his father's shirt, gripping him tightly and shaking him. He is not calm, he is breathless, he cannot speak.

"Alfred," Arthur snaps, trying to sound angry but concern making him soft. He grabs his son's wrist, guiding it away from its death grip. "What's got you so excited? Where have you been?"

Alfred stares at him before making an unintelligible noise. Then he admits, "The _FBI_ is after me!"

All blood draining from his face, Arthur stares at him in horror; then, quickly regaining his composure, he pulls him inside with a fast hand. "Get in here!" As he shuts the door behind them, he glares. "What do you mean the _FBI_ is after you? What have you done, Alfred?" He braces his back against the door. Maybe they'd chased his son home. He wonders if Alfred deserves it.

Alfred rips off his shoes, then starts to pace the main hallway. "Well, they might _not_ have been the FBI…" he mumbles to himself, quietly rubbing the slight stubble that had given way under his skin.

"…Come again?" Arthur is helpless to watch his son walk distractedly, pulling fact from exaggerations in his mind.

"They were from the government, though," Alfred decides, nodding. He seems to be talking to himself over anyone. "I know that for sure. They said they needed me…" He fades. There are distant facsimiles arriving to him; he sees images of wide forests and purple creatures. He blinks and they're gone. He feels tension like no other.

"Again, _what did you do_?" Arthur begs, breaking into Alfred's attention. "What got you in trouble with the bloody _government_, Alfred?"

Alfred waves his hands, frantically. He is very shaken up over the ordeal. "No, honest, I didn't do anything… th-this time, Dad!" Dad sounds like an uncommon name, unfitting, like it wasn't what he was supposed to say... like a sin, breaking forth through his lips, a tender transgression. Alfred gaps. He feels as if his focus is a tenuous thing, constantly fading from him. He wants to cry. "Th-they said… they said they wanted to introduce me to a new project, would you believe that? They said I was a perfect candidate." His eyes are wide, and they dually plead at his father from behind twin slabs of glass. He needs understanding, not accusation. He feels like a victim of something worldly, of something bigger than him.

Arthur moves to put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Come on… sit, and tell me everything."

Alfred can read the look in those green eyes; Arthur wants to help him, and make him feel better, but there's always something that Arthur includes in that care package. "…You're not going to make me drink _tea_, are you?" he asks carefully, barely hiding his disgust, trying to force something casual to get him off edge.

"I've told you, tea has a calming effect on the soul but… no. I won't make you," he ends in a sigh.

Alfred smiles in gratification. He sits, heavily, in the armchair at the side of their living room. His father sits across from him.

Each is silent. Each wants the other to begin speaking, the desire stemming from Alfred's fear, Arthur's confusion.

"Well…" Alfred emits, quietly, scratching the back of his head; "I was heading to the arcade, ya know, just minding my own business. And then a man wearing a black suit, black hat, and dark sunglasses flashes a badge at me and asks me if I'm Alfred F. Jones.

"'Well, yeah I am,' I tell him; 'Who else could I be?' But he doesn't even crack a smile. He says to me, 'You are wanted by the government. You are not in trouble, but it would be very wise if you were to come with me.'" He imitates the agent's voice in a comical manner. "And I know Dad, you've always told me not to go places with strangers… but this guy was for real. Like... I felt like I couldn't even leave if I wanted to.

"Then he brings me to this building, and we go through the doors… Then he takes me to a room that's kind of dark. There's one other government guy in there, and then there's a blond man I've never seen before, sitting at a table. They make me sit right in front of the blond dude. And I ask, 'Hey, what's going on?' And this is what they answer; listen to this, this is crazy—" He clears his throat, and begins to repeat; he feels like a token of a larger plan, as if they'd manipulated him into spreading the message; he feels guilty and angry and tired:

"'There's a new program the world's governing leaders want to test out. We would like to create a new world. But this is risky, so we need to secure a group of people who will be put into a time-locked safe house in case something goes wrong. We have brought the two of you here because we believe you are immensely capable of what we need to get done.' Or something like that. At this point, Dad, I'm all like, 'W-T-F? I know I'm awesome, you don't need to tell me!' But he seemed to be talking about something… more. Like there was something in my soul _desirable_ to him.

"'What the hell?' I ask the guy." Alfred is shaking again, once more in the dark room. "He kind of glares at me; I guess it wasn't the time for questions, but I didn't care. I ask, 'What are you talking about by a new world?'

"He doesn't answer me right away… and then he says, 'This population has overridden its welcome. People are turning to thievery, assault, trickery, and many other dastardly actions because it's become ideal; you aren't accepted if you aren't _bad_. The government would like to re-make this generation, see if we can reprogram their minds with a super weapon we've created. But because we don't know how it will turn out, we have selected a large group of people who will be transported to a secret safe location, and if need be, the group will start the world over, but in a more… orderly fashion.'" Alfred swallows. His eyes shine.

"I swear, Dad, he must have been on drugs on something! It was _such_ a crazy idea. I was just about to say, 'Oh hell no! You're off your rocker!' or something but the blond guy beats me to it. The guy says, 'No thank you.' Like he's some royal prince or something, and only his opinion matters.

"But it surprised me, Dad, because... because the blond guy seemed to be really digging the idea at first. But then I think he remembered something important, 'cause he looked down at his arm and then his eyes kind of washed over and he wanted _no_ part of it.

"I was really glad, Dad. If… if he hadn't refused, I probably wouldn't have had the nerve to refuse myself!" He laughed nervously, ashamed at the truth in his own words. "I know it sounds cowardly, but hell, they were some _scary_ bastards.

"Then they… well, they simply nodded at us, told us they weren't going to force anything, and just let us go… And told us not to tell anyone what we'd heard, blah, blah, blah, and that was that. I wanted to talk to the blond guy, you know, see if he knew anything more that he wasn't telling me, but when I tried, he just told me in a German accent: 'Just be thankful for what you have.' And he walked away.

"I gave him a look because really, what the hell? What was he, Yoda? Giving me vague advice like that. And I was still kinda on an adrenaline hype or something... so I ran home, told you everything, and... here we are. Yeah. That's... that's about it."

Alfred is done. By the end of the statement, he is more energized than he is troubled over his ordeal. He feels as if he'd escaped something huge and come out stronger for it.

He forgets that his dad isn't too keen on some of his 'teenage lingo'. He's staring at his son, trying to process it all.

Alfred taps his fingers together. He decides the peculiar episode is just a minute experience, nothing to impact the rest of his life. Everything should go back to normal, as long as he ignores the flashes of white walls and red blood from his mind, erase all the pictures of black uniforms and bright purple eyes. "Yeah," he decides, really only speaking to himself; "I could really go for a soda or something… maybe a cheeseburger… A cheeseburger, yum…"

* * *

Ludwig feels like a walking disaster Like his life has crashed into some far-off reality, and the debris is written in his clothes. It's been a long day. Only the nineteenth of February, and he's sick of the cold weather, the frigid wind. He is struggling to get home.

It had all started with a case of bedhead, increased when he lost the key to his desk, and climaxed with the approach of a man in a dark hat, and the near subsequent kidnapping in response to it. People would think he had walked there willingly, but he had seen the bulge of a weapon on the main's belt-line and he had not been about to argue. And the nonsense he had told him? About a new world and remaking a population?

Well, it had seemed to make sense.

Now, Ludwig isn't evil. He is simply at an advanced state of pessimism. And when the person had told him about starting the world over, and reprogramming all of the bad people? He has to admit, he had been very interested. For the most part, he had been supporting the idea.

But then he had looked at his wrist, seen the watch Feliciano had given him, and remembered a situation from so long ago:

_Feliciano went out shopping on a nice, spring morning. The weather was kind, and the atmosphere around him was very pleasant. He sung to himself, as he clasped the paper bags to his chest. He had seen a watch on display that reminded him so much of Ludwig that he just had to get it. He was going to surprise him with it, because Ludwig had needed a watch, even if he hadn't said so directly._

_But despite the nice conditions, someone wasn't affected._

_On the prowl, someone wearing all black, came up to Feliciano from behind, demanding: "All of your money and anything valuable, now!"_

_And Feliciano had been scared, he really had. But he didn't want the watch taken! It was a present! He managed to tuck the thin box into the waistband of his pants, as the thief knocked his bags from his hands._

_Feliciano was frozen, and powerless. He could only watch as the robber ripped a small pendent from Feliciano's chest that had been in his family for centuries._

_Ludwig, when told about it, had been __**beyond**__ furious. Was he hurt? And did he know who the man was? were just two of the many questions he asked of Feliciano._

_Feliciano had been pretty calm, considering. He mentioned the man seemed a bit familiar, maybe they'd seen each other in passing, but it was nothing to worry about. He just pulled the watch from his pocket, and showed it proudly. "Vee, Ludwig! Look! He didn't take this. He couldn't take my love for you away!"_

And Ludwig knows… no one has the right to take away love, new world be damned.

Ludwig wears the love on his wrist daily now.

Ludwig finally gets to his apartment, and like usual, Feliciano is waiting for him. He has woken from his three-o'-clock nap just minutes previous; it ran a bit late.

Before Feliciano can say anything, Ludwig drops his things and leans over him, kissing him softly.

Feliciano draws back from it, mollified but surprised. "Ve?" he questions, and Ludwig knows what he means.

"Nothing, Feli… I just realized how easily it could be for me to lose you." The government agent had never assured that their love ones would be safe. That had completely broken the deal. He thinks that there's a hole in his chest from the whole prospect of losing Feliciano. It feels... personal? As if he'd gotten so close to the loss of him but only managed to escape it by some sort of miracle. He feels weightless and sure. "And I don't want to lose you. Ever."

* * *

Toward the end of winter, on a frosty February 19th, 2013, Vash is sitting alone. And he supposes that he's gone absolutely insane, because really, the evening is approaching fast. Yet he still sits, on a swing hung over a tree he'd made in his youth, waiting and waiting. There are snowflakes riding in the wind; they're going home, so why isn't he?

It's because he has an undying loyalty to the person he's waiting for, and he's sure that person damn well knows it…

Vash fleetingly distracts himself by swinging. At first it's just his feet, moving forlornly, but then his knees join in; and before he knows it, he's laughing to himself and daring to go higher. Higher, he can almost touch the sky! He has forgotten how enjoyable a swing set is… he can now justify his younger self making it in the first place.

"Well, I see you can manage to have fun without me nowadays. How surprising."

Startled, Vash loses his grip. He falls backward, hard against the ground. As he lays, cold and hurting, he tries to fight off a headache. He hears a light chuckling in the air. "I see you made no attempt to catch me, bastard." But he can't help but be grateful for seeing this face again—his friend is due to leave in two days; to leave, and never come back. Leave him—

"What? You would have yelled at me for doing that!"

"And now I'm yelling at you for not doing it. Get used to it already." Vash gets onto his knees, and collapses his elbows onto the swing. His hands finger the rope, and his eyes stare ahead. He feels like he can see everything in the universe; but it all comes to a subdued blank when he thinks of his friend.

Clad in a winter jacket, a purple scarf, long pants and snow boots, Roderich stares back at him. He smiles a little, but it means nothing. "Hey there."

"What took you so long?" Vash asks of him finally, as he manages to rise to his feet. "You told me to come here at three. It's four now. Why would you be late to your own, arranged meeting?"

Roderich smiles a bit and walks toward him. "I have… news, is all. And I'm sorry for making you wait, but I had other people to talk to before you, and I had a feeling you'd wait for me. Guess I was right!"

"Oh, shut up. Hurry and tell me your good news so I can get home," Vash says, moving around the swing, facing his friend. "It's damn _cold_."

Roderich laughs at his impatience. "Well… you know that job offering that threatens to move me half-way across the country?"

Vash stops, blinking to himself, before he dares look into the purple eyes that smirk at him. Roderich worked at a medical lab in the city; he was paid well, and he'd just had a clinical breakthrough a few months ago. The serum he developed could cure many inborn diseases, and while it hadn't been proved yet, the trials were going well and they'd wanted to move him to a high-profile lab hundreds of miles away to get him the tools and fame he deserved.

Vash looks down at his feet. "…Yeah. What about it?" He tries not to sound too influenced. Too clinging-to-every-word.

Smiling to himself, Roderich copies his posture, looking down at his feet and rocking. "Well, turns out there's this genius woman two states away with an idea just as brilliant. They're offering the position to her, too. So now I have a choice: going, or staying here..." Roderich hangs it. Hangs it like a noose and Vash swears he'll suffocate. Vash thinks he's felt this before: this iron-like pain in his chest, when he's unsure of Roderich's fate. As if it'd haunted him before.

By the gleam in his eyes, Vash guesses that Roderich has already made a decision. He smashes down any illogical hope he has and squares his shoulders. His face goes blank, even as Roderich steps into the snow and stands close before him. "So, what? What are you doing?"

The words are so clean and clear and packed with feeling that they'll stick with Vash forever:

"I want to stay here."

* * *

Gilbert yawns, waking on a crisp February 19th, 2013. He raises his arms over his head as he walks down the staircase, his shirt straining against him. "Mmm… good morning," he greets, to whoever is listening.

From the kitchen, he hears movement, and then Matthew is standing in front of him.

"Morning?!" Matthew cries, in disbelief. He wears a day of work in his eyes, within the skin of his face. He looks as if he's fought a long battle and came out victorious, if scarred. "It's five PM!"

"Oh…" Gilbert rubs at his eyes, looking down at him, soft and tingly. "Good… evening, sweetie…"

Matthew smiles at him, and leans close, resting his arms on the other's shoulders. It feels good to touch, the physical contact immensely reassuring. "How late did you stay up last night?"

Gilbert can't remember. "Maybe… five? Six AM? Does it matter now? I'm awake, and I'm hungry. Where's breakfast?"

"Um, in the fridge now. There's only leftovers, now, and whatever Kumahoney didn't get to yet."

"Damn it," Gilbert huffs in a rush, moving past his lover to run into the kitchen. He sees a white ball of fluff opening the refrigerator's door. Just in time. "Outta my way, you lazy teddy bear! The pancakes are _mine_."

Kumajirou narrows his tiny eyes at him, and they begin a stare-down. Moments passed, the electric adversity somehow familiar.

Gilbert hisses like a cat.

Kumajirou turns his nose to the ceiling, and strolls past the man. As Gilbert raids the fridge, the bear sits in front of his original owner and licks his paws. "Life easier when he isn't here," he states, needing Matthew to know.

Matthew laughs, and sits on his heels to gain proportional eye-level. The sweatshirt of Gilbert's that he wore pooled around his feet. It was really too big for him… "Now, Kumadubbie, Gilbert makes me happy; so you're going to have to get used to him living here with us."

Already, Kumajirou is confused. "Who?"

Rolling his eyes, Matthew stands to gauge the imminent doom impending to unfold in the kitchen. He winces, preparing.

He can hear Gilbert whining, "Mattie… how do you turn on the microwave?"

Knowing him too well, Matthew states, "Well, you have to plug it in before you do anything."

"Oh! See, that's why you're the smart one," he replies genuinely, singing it. There is a click and then the humming of an electrical appliance.

Gilbert is back in front of him in seconds. "Okay." He rubs his hands together, excited and eager, shifting his weight. "There were just enough pancakes left for my awesome self." Matthew smiles at him. Smiles wide. "So… what've you been up to today?"

"Well, while you were in held up in your sweet dreams…" Steadily, his heart rate begins to increase. He is unsure why he is so nervous. It is as if the moment is sacred, on the head of the pin, topsy-turvy and turning the world upside-down. Matthew blinks away the dizziness, finds himself confused but determined to overcome it. "I was out and… I found something you might like." Leaving the announcement to linger, he meanders into the living room.

Gilbert is hooked. He follows Matthew, loyally. They will always find each other.

Matthew sits on the low table in the middle of the room, and, as excited as a kid, Gilbert perches on the couch before him. The tone of red on his sweatpants match that of the couch. "Something I might like, huh? I think _I'm_ the only judge of that."

The only answer is a smile. "Well, think of it as another birthday present, but late. I really want to show it to you now, for some reason." It is an unknown factor in his head over why he is so insistent on showing this item to him… He digs in his pocket, until the material is familiar. "Here, Gilbert," he says, pulling a tiny red box lined in white lace from his pants. "This is for you."

With his eyes lighting up, Gilbert takes the mysterious thing with developing curiosity. "Thanks, Birdie!" He plucks one of the ribbons loose, and manages to pull the top from the box. "What's this?" he asks, pulling it out. It's a wide golden ring, and his grin stretches in amazement.

Moving mechanically feeling like an actor in a script, Matthew takes the ring in his hand, and slides it onto Gilbert's finger. It fits a bit too perfectly. He holds his hands for a little longer, wondering to himself. There is a safety about this moment; there is a calming, secure feeling entrapping them, leaving them be, as the world fights for itself. "Well…" Matthew says, finally, clearing his throat. "I see it as something that'll keep me with you. As long as you have this, we'll be together forever." He ends with a blush. His fingers loiter before he drops them. He feels breathless and... and...

There is a silence, in which Matthew is afraid of being rejected, afraid of everything falling apart, and Gilbert is attempting to find exactly the right words.

Finally, Gilbert looks up and meets his eyes. Light laughter brightens the room. "You're so cheesy, Matthew!" he exclaims, the fondness strangling any joke from the expression.

The blush intensifies. "What? Sorry!" Matthew replied, pretending to be scandalized. "But I just… couldn't help myself."

"Couldn't help yourself, huh." He stands, and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Well, it's the perfect—" Gilbert means to finish with, _it's just the perfect gift_, but there is a loud explosion.

Matthew is up in an instant. "Gilbert! How high did you put the microwave on?!" He can see pancake matter splattered all over the kitchen, and the smell of something burning… and a flattened white box that used to be his microwave…

Gilbert pales, and tries to remember. "Um—the one at the very top?"

"_Why_ would you do that?!" Matthew shouts. "That's _not_ for pancakes! It's—it's for stuff you basically need to light on fire! Not… not pancakes… Oh, Gilbert…"

"It was the _top_," Gilbert defends, throwing his hands in the smoky air, as Matthew hurries to save his kitchen. "The top is the most awesome spot to be on!"

The little yellow bird in his hair agrees with him.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm sorry for all the long updates. To anyone still reading, I owe you everything. Thank you, thank you so much. This was a project of mine and I appreciate every single one of you who read/followed/favorited/reviewed, each one of those notifications made my day and made me feel like I was doing something worth my time. So again, thank you so much.

If you have any questions about the plot, the ending, or anything (it ends with them being sent back in time, but the thief [which in my head was Jordan] did not take the watch. That way, there was something to persuade Ludwig not to take the deal), please do not hesistate to ask me. I will try to explain to the best of my abilities, I know this story was confusing and probably only makes sense to me.

Again, thank you so much for reading, this'll probably be my last fanfiction, adieu! :)

_Lyrics featured in this story are from the following songs, all of which I claim no credit for: Long Shot by Kelly Clarkson (Chapter Fifty/Fifty-One); Exogenesis: Symphony Part One [Overture] by Muse (Chapter Fifty-Nine); Exogenesis: Symphony Part Two [Cross-Pollination] by Muse (Chapter Sixty); Exogenesis Part Three [Redemption] by Muse (Epilogue)._


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